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EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


THE  SPHINX 


EGYPT 


AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


BY 


ROBERT  HICHENS 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 


JULES  GUERIN 


AND  WITH  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1923 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published  October,  1908 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


I PAGE 

THE  PYRAMIDS 5 

II 

THE  SPHINX 1 8 

III 

SAKKARA  28 

IV 

ABYDOS 37 

V 

THE  NILE 46 

VI 

DENDERAH 52 

VII 

KARNAK 66 

VIII 

LUXOR 88 

IX 

COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON . 107 

X 

MEDINET-ABU  120 


v 


CONTENTS 


Ai  PAGE 

THE  RAMESSEUM 132 

XII 

DEIR-EL-BAHARI 148 

XIII 

THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS 166 

XIV 

EDFU 174 

XV 

KOM  OMBOS 196 

XVI 

phil^: 212 

XVII 

“PHARAOH’S  BED” 228 

XVIII 

OLD  CAIRO 252 


vi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGR 

The  Sphinx Frontispiece 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Pyramids  of  Ghizeh 4 

From  a Photograph. 

From  the  summit  of  the  Great  Pyramid 7 

From  a Photograph. 

Looking  down  the  main  passage  of  the  Great  Pyramid  ....  1 1 

From  a J’hotograph. 

The  Pyramids  of  Ghizeh 16 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Sphinx 20 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Sphinx  and  the  Second  Pyramid 25 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Step  Pyramid  of  Sakkara 29 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Entrance  to  the  Tomb  of  Thi 34 

From  a Photograph. 

Temple  of  Seti  I,  Abydos 39 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Great  Hall  of  Abydos 44 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Village  on  the  site  of  Ancient  Memphis 48 

From  a Photograph. 

On  the  Roof  of  the  Temple  of  Hathor,  Denderah 53 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Temple  of  Hathor,  Denderah 57 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Figures  of  Cleopatra  and  her  son  Caesarion  on  the  wall  of  the 

Temple  of  Hathor 62 

From  a Photograph. 

Interior,  Temple  of  Khuns,  Karnak 67 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Great  Temple  of  Karnak 72 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Sacred  Lotus  in  the  Temple  at  Karnak 76 

From  a Photograph. 

Entrance  to  Temple  of  Rameses  III,  Karnak 81 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Sacred  Lake,  Karnak 85 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Temple  of  Luxor  from  the  easterly  Pylon 90 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Court  of  Amenhotep  III,  Temple  of  Luxor 93 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

In  the  Temple  of  Luxor 97 

From  a Photograph. 

Obelisk  and  Pylon,  Luxor 102 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Great  Colonnade,  Temple  of  Luxor 105 

Painted  by  Jules  Gudrin. 

Near  view  of  the  Colossi  of  Memnon 109 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Colossi  of  Memnon 114 

Painted  by  Jules  Gudrin. 

The  Valley  of  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings 1 17 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Temple  of  Medinet- Abu 122 

Painted  by  Jules  Gudrin. 

Corner  of  Second  Court,  Temple  of  Rameses  III,  Medinet- Abu  . 125 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Ramesseum 129 

Painted  by  Jules  Gudrin. 

viii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAcJB 


The  Thinking  Place  of  Rameses  the  Great.”  Hall  of  Lotus  Col- 


umns, Ramesseum 133 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Plain  of  Thebes  from  the  roof  of  the  Ramesseum  . . . .137 

From  a Photograph. 

Hall  of  Lotus  Columns,  Ramesseum 141 


From  a Photograph. 

Pilasters  and  broken  colossal  statue  of  Rameses  II 146 

From  a Photograph. 


The  Temple  of  Queen  Hatasu,  Deir-el-Bahari 149 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Recent  excavations  at  Deir-el-Bahari 153 

From  a Photograph. 

“The  half-naked  workmen  toiling  and  sweating  in  the  sun”  . .157 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Vache  Hathor  of  Denderah 162 

From  a Photograph. 

Painted  tomb  chamber  of  Prince  Sen-nofer,  Thebes 167 

From  a Photograph. 

Temple  of  Esneh 171 

From  a Photograph. 

Prayer  in  the  Desert 175 

Pa'nted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Temple  of  Edfu 180 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Pylon,  Temple  of  Edfu 183 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Temple  of  Edfu  from  the  top  of  the  Pylon  . ...  190 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Court,  Temple  of  Edfu 193 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Hypostyle  Hall,  Kom  Ombos 197 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Temple  of  Kom  Ombos 201 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 


IX 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Temple  of  Korn  Ombos.  Screen  wall  of  Hypostyle  Hall  . . . 206 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Island  of  Elephantine,  from  Assuan 210 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Isle  of  Philae  before  the  construction  of  the  dam 213 

From  a Photograph. 

The  Sacred  Isle  of  Philae 217 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Temple  of  Isis,  Philae 222 

From  a Photograph. 

Nearly  submerged  columns,  Isle  of  Philae 225 

From  a Photograph. 

Pharaoh’s  Bed,  before  the  construction  of  the  dam 229 

From  a Photograph. 

“ Pharaoh’s  Bed,”  Island  of  Philae 233 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

In  “Pharaoh’s  Bed,”  Island  of  Philae 238 

From  a Photograph. 

Fore-court  of  the  Temple  of  Isis  and  “ Pharaoh’s  Bed,”  Philae  . 241 

From  a Photograph. 

Abu-Simbel 245 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Abu-Simbel,  from  the  river 249 

From  a Photograph. 


EGYPT 

AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


THE  PYRAMIDS  OF  GHIZEH 


EGYPT  AND  ITS 
MONUMENTS 


i 

THE  PYRAMIDS 

WHY  do  you  come  to  Egypt?  Do  you  come 
to  gain  a dream,  or  to  regain  lost  dreams 
of  old;  to  gild  your  life  with  the  drowsy 
gold  of  romance,  to  lose  a creeping  sorrow,  to  forget 
that  too  many  of  your  hours  are  sullen,  gray,  bereft? 
What  do  you  wish  of  Egypt? 

The  Sphinx  will  not  ask  you,  will  not  care.  The 
Pyramids,  lifting  their  unnumbered  stones  to  the  clear 
and  wonderful  skies,  have  held,  still  hold,  their  secrets; 
but  they  do  not  seek  for  yours.  The  terrific  temples, 
the  hot,  mysterious  tombs,  odorous  of  the  dead  desires 
of  men,  crouching  in  and  under  the  immeasurable 
sands,  will  mock  you  with  their  brooding  silence,  with 
their  dim  and  somber  repose.  The  brown  children  of 
the  Nile,  the  toilers  who  sing  their  antique  songs  by  the 

5 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


shadoof  and  the  sakieh,  the  dragomans,  the  smiling 
goblin  merchants,  the  Bedouins  who  lead  your  camel 
into  the  pale  recesses  of  the  dunes — these  will  not 
trouble  themselves  about  your  deep  desires,  your  per- 
haps yearning  hunger  of  the  heart  and  the  imagination. 

Yet  Egypt  is  not  unresponsive. 

I came  back  to  her  with  dread,  after  fourteen  years 
of  absence — years  filled  for  me  with  the  rumors  of  her 
changes.  And  on  the  very  day  of  my  arrival  she  calmly 
reassured  me.  She  told  me  in  her  supremely  magical 
way  that  all  was  well  with  her.  She  taught  me  once 
more  a lesson  I had  not  quite  forgotten,  but  that  I was 
glad  to  learn  again — the  lesson  that  Egypt  owes  her 
most  subtle,  most  inner  beauty  to  Kheper,  although 
she  owes  her  marvels  to  men;  that  when  he  created 
the  sun  which  shines  upon  her,  he  gave  her  the  luster 
of  her  life,  and  that  those  who  come  to  her  must  be 
sun-worshipers  if  they  would  truly  and  intimately  un- 
derstand the  treasure  of  romance  that  lies  heaped  within 
her  bosom. 

Thoth,  says  the  old  legend,  traveled  in  the  Boat  of 
the  Sun.  If  you  would  love  Egypt  rightly,  you,  too, 
must  be  a traveler  in  that  bark.  You  must  not  fear  to 
steep  yourself  in  the  mystery  of  gold,  in  the  mystery 
of  heat,  in  the  mystery  of  silence  that  seems  softly 
showered  out  of  the  sun.  The  sacred  white  lotus  must 
be  your  emblem,  and  Horus,  the  hawk-headed,  merged 
in  Ra,  your  special  deity.  Scarcely  had  I set  foot  once 


o 


FROM  THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  GREAT  PYRAMID 


THE  PYRAMIDS 


more  in  Egypt  before  Thoth  lifted  me  into  the  Boat  of 
the  Sun  and  soothed  my  fears  to  sleep. 

I arrived  in  Cairo.  I saw  new  and  vast  hotels ; I 
saw  crowded  streets;  brilliant  shops;  English  officials 
driving  importantly  in  victorias,  surely  to  pay  dreadful 
calls  of  ceremony;  women  in  gigantic  hats,  with 
Niagaras  of  veil,  waving  white  gloves  as  they  talked  of 
— I guessed — the  latest  Cairene  scandal.  I perceived  on 
the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  waiters  created  in  Switzer- 
land, hall  porters  made  in  Germany,  Levantine  touts, 
determined  Jews  holding  false  antiquities  in  their  lean 
fingers,  an  English  Baptist  minister,  in  a white  helmet, 
drinking  chocolate  on  a terrace,  with  a guide-book  in 
one  fist,  a ticket  to  visit  monuments  in  the  other.  I 
heard  Scottish  soldiers  playing,  “I  ’ll  be  in  Scotland 
before  ye!”  and  something  within  me,  a lurking  hope, 
I suppose,  seemed  to  founder  and  collapse — but  only 
for  a moment.  It  was  after  four  in  the  afternoon.  Soon 
day  would  be  declining.  And  I seemed  to  remember 
that  the  decline  of  day  in  Egypt  had  moved  me  long 
ago — moved  me  as  few,  rare  things  have  ever  done. 
Within  half  an  hour  I was  alone,  far  up  the  long  road 
— Ismail’s  road — that  leads  from  the  suburbs  of  Cairo 
to  the  Pyramids.  And  then  Egypt  took  me  like  a child 
by  the  hand  and  reassured  me. 

It  was  the  first  week  of  November,  high  Nile  had 
not  subsided,  and  all  the  land  here,  between  the  river 
and  the  sand  where  the  Sphinx  keeps  watch,  was  hidden 

9 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

beneath  the  vast  and  tranquil  waters  of  what  seemed 
a tideless  sea — a sea  fringed  with  dense  masses  of  date- 
palms,  girdled  in  the  far  distance  by  palm-trees  that 
looked  almost  black,  broken  by  low  and  tiny  islands 
on  which  palm-trees  kept  the  white  and  the  brown 
houses  in  their  feathery  embrace.  Above  these  isolated 
houses  pigeons  circled.  In  the  distance  the  lateen  sails 
of  boats  glided,  sometimes  behind  the  palms,  coming 
into  view,  vanishing,  mysteriously  reappearing  among 
their  narrow  trunks.  Here  and  there  a living  thing 
moved  slowly,  wading  homeward  through  this  sea:  a 
camel  from  the  sands  of  Ghizeh,  a buffalo,  two  donkeys, 
followed  by  boys  who  held  with  brown  hands  their 
dark  blue  skirts  near  their  faces,  a Bedouin  leaning 
forward  upon  the  neck  of  his  quickly  stepping  horse. 
At  one  moment  I seemed  to  look  upon  the  lagoons  of 
Venice,  a watery  vision  full  of  a glassy  calm.  Then 
the  palm-trees  in  the  water,  and  growing  to  its  edge, 
the  pale  sands  that,  far  as  the  eyes  could  see,  from 
Ghizeh  to  Sakkara  and  beyond,  fringed  it  toward  the 
west,  made  me  think  of  the  Pacific,  of  palmy  islands 
of  a paradise  where  men  grow  drowsy  in  well-being, 
and  dream  away  the  years.  And  then  I looked  still 
farther,  beyond  the  pallid  line  of  the  sands,  and  I saw 
a Pyramid  of  gold,  the  wonder  Khufu  had  built.  As  a 
golden  wonder  it  saluted  me  after  all  my  years  of 
absence.  Later  I was  to  see  it  gray  as  gray  sands, 
sulphur  color  in  the  afternoon  from  very  near  at  hand, 

IO 


LOOKING  DOWN  THE  MAIN  PASSAGE  OF  THE  GREAT  PYRAMID 


THE  PYRAMIDS 


black  as  a monument  draped  in  funereal  velvet  for  a 
mourning  under  the  stars  at  night,  white  as  a monstrous 
marble  tomb  soon  after  dawn  from  the  sand-dunes  be- 
tween it  and  Sakkara.  But  as  a golden  thing  it  greeted 
me,  as  a golden  miracle  I shall  remember  it. 

Slowly  the  sun  went  down.  The  second  Pyramid 
seemed  also  made  of  gold.  Drowsily  splendid  it  and 
its  greater  brother  looked  set  on  the  golden  sands  be- 
neath the  golden  sky.  And  now  the  gold  came  travel- 
ing down  from  the  desert  to  the  water,  turning  it  surely 
to  a wine  like  the  wine  of  gold  that  flowed  down 
Midas’s  throat;  then,  as  the  magic  grew,  to  a Pactolus, 
and  at  last  to  a great  surface  that  resembled  golden  ice, 
hard,  glittering,  unbroken  by  any  ruffling  wave.  The 
islands  rising  from  this  golden  ice  were  jet  black,  the 
houses  black,  the  palms  and  their  shadows  that  fell 
upon  the  marvel  black.  Black  were  the  birds  that  flew 
low  from  roof  to  roof,  black  the  wading  camels,  black 
the  meeting  leaves  of  the  tall  lebbek-trees  that  formed 
a tunnel  from  where  I stood  to  Mena  House.  And 
presently  a huge  black  Pyramid  lay  supine  on  the  gold, 
and  near  it  a shadowy  brother  seemed  more  humble  than 
it,  but  scarcely  less  mysterious.  The  gold  deepened, 
glowed  more  fiercely.  In  the  sky  above  the  Pyramids 
hung  tiny  cloud  wreaths  of  rose  red,  delicate  and  airy  as 
the  gossamers  of  Tunis.  As  I turned,  far  off  in  Cairo  I 
saw  the  first  lights  glittering  across  the  fields  of  doura, 
silvery  white,  like  diamonds.  But  the  silver  did  not 

x3 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


call  me.  My  imagination  was  held  captive  by  the  gold. 
I was  summoned  by  the  gold,  and  I went  on,  under 
the  black  lebbek-trees,  on  Ismail’s  road,  toward  it. 
And  I dwelt  in  it  many  days. 

The  wonders  of  Egypt  man  has  made  seem  to  in- 
crease in  stature  before  the  spirits’  eyes  as  man  learns 
to  know  them  better,  to  tower  up  ever  higher  till  the 
imagination  is  almost  stricken  by  their  looming  great- 
ness. Climb  the  great  Pyramid,  spend  a day  with 
Abou  on  its  summit,  come  down,  penetrate  into  its  re- 
cesses, stand  in  the  king’s  chamber,  listen  to  the  silence 
there,  feel  it  with  your  hands, — is  it  not  tangible  in  this 
hot  fastness  of  incorruptible  death? — creep,  like  the 
surreptitious  midget  you  feel  yourself  to  be,  up  those 
long  and  steep  inclines  of  polished  stone,  watching  the 
bloomy  darkness  of  the  narrow  walls,  the  far-off  pin- 
point of  light  borne  by  the  Bedouin  who  guides  you, 
hear  the  twitter  of  the  bats  that  have  their  dwelling  in 
this  monstrous  gloom  that  man  has  made  to  shelter  the 
thing  whose  ambition  could  never  be  embalmed,  though 
that,  of  all  its  qualities,  should  have  been  given  here, 
in  the  land  it  dowered,  a life  perpetual.  Now  you 
know  the  great  Pyramid.  You  know  that  you  can 
climb  it,  that  you  can  enter  it.  You  have  seen  it  from 
all  sides,  under  all  aspects.  It  is  familiar  to  you. 

No,  it  can  never  be  that.  With  its  more  wonderful 
comrade,  the  Sphinx,  it  has  the  power  peculiar,  so  it 
seems  to  me,  to  certain  of  the  rock  and  stone  monu- 


• • 


THE  PYRAMIDS  OF  GHIZEH 


THE  PYRAMIDS 


ments  of  Egypt,  of  holding  itself  ever  aloof,  almost  like 
the  soul  of  man  which  can  retreat  at  will,  like  the 
Bedouin  retreating  from  you  into  the  blackness  of  the 
Pyramid,  far  up,  or  far  down,  where  the  pursuing 
stranger,  unaided,  cannot  follow. 


17 


II 


THE  SPHINX 

ONE  day  at  sunset  I saw"  a bird  trying  to  play 
with  the  Sphinx  — a bird  like  a swallow,  but 
with  a ruddy  brown  on  its  breast,  a gleam  of 
blue  somewhere  on  its  wings.  When  I came  to  the 
edge  of  the  sand  basin  where  perhaps  Khufu  saw  it 
lying  nearly  four  thousand  years  before  the  birth  of 
Christ,  the  Sphinx  and  the  bird  were  quite  alone.  The 
bird  flew  near  the  Sphinx,  whimsically  turning  this  way 
and  that,  flying  now  low,  now  high,  but  ever  returning 
to  the  magnet  which  drew  it,  which  held  it,  from  which 
it  surely  longed  to  extract  some  sign  of  recognition.  It 
twittered,  it  poised  itself  in  the  golden  air,  with  its 
bright  eyes  fixed  upon  those  eyes  of  stone  which  gazed 
beyond  it,  beyond  the  land  of  Egypt,  beyond  the  world 
of  men,  beyond  the  center  of  the  sun  to  the  last  verges 
of  eternity.  And  presently  it  alighted  on  the  head  of 
the  Sphinx,  then  on  its  ear,  then  on  its  breast;  and  over 
the  breast  it  tripped  jerkily,  with  tiny,  elastic  steps,  look- 
ing upward,  its  whole  body  quivering  apparently  with  a 
desire  for  comprehension  — a desire  for  some  manifes- 
tation of  friendship.  Then  suddenly  it  spread  its  wings 

i 8 


THE  SPHINX 


THE  SPHINX 


and,  straight  as  an  arrow,  it  flew  away  over  the  sands 
and  the  waters  toward  the  doura-fields  and  Cairo. 

And  the  sunset  waned,  and  the  afterglow  flamed 
and  faded,  and  the  clear,  soft  African  night  fell.  The 
pilgrims  who  day  by  day  visit  the  Sphinx,  like  the 
bird,  had  gone  back  to  Cairo.  They  had  come,  as  the 
bird  had  come;  as  those  who  have  conquered  Egypt 
came;  as  the  Greeks  came,  Alexander  of  Macedon, 
and  the  Ptolemies;  as  the  Romans  came;  as  the  Mame- 
lukes, the  Turks,  the  French,  the  English  came. 

They  had  come — and  gone. 

And  that  enormous  face,  with  the  stains  of  stormy 
red  still  adhering  to  its  cheeks,  grew  dark  as  the  dark- 
ness closed  in,  turned  brown  as  a fellah’s  face,  as  the 
face  of  that  fellah  who  whispered  his  secret  in  the 
Sphinx’s  ear,  but  learnt  no  secret  in  return;  turned 
black  almost  as  a Nubian’s  face.  The  night  accentuated 
its  appearance  of  terrible  repose,  of  superhuman  indif- 
ference to  whatever  might  befall.  In  the  night  I seemed 
to  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  dead — of  all  the  dead  war- 
riors and  the  steeds  they  rode,  defiling  over  the  sand 
before  the  unconquerable  thing  they  perhaps  thought 
that  they  had  conquered.  At  last  the  footsteps  died 
away.  There  was  a silence.  Then,  coming  down  from 
the  Great  Pyramid,  surely  I heard  the  light  patter  of  a 
donkey’s  feet.  They  went  to  the  Sphinx  and  ceased. 
The  silence  was  profound.  And  I remembered  the 
legend  that  Mary,  Joseph,  and  the  Holy  Child  once 


21 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


halted  here  on  their  long  journey,  and  that  Mary  laid 
the  tired  Christ  between  the  paws  of  the  Sphinx  to 
sleep.  Yet  even  of  the  Christ  the  soul  within  that  body 
could  take  no  heed  at  all. 

It  is,  I think,  one  of  the  most  astounding  facts  in  the 
history  of  man  that  a man  was  able  to  contain  within 
his  mind,  to  conceive,  the  conception  of  the  Sphinx. 
That  he  could  carry  it  out  in  the  stone  is  amazing.  But 
how  much  more  amazing  it  is  that  before  there  was  the 
Sphinx  he  was  able  to  see  it  with  his  imagination!  One 
may  criticize  the  Sphinx.  One  may  say  impertinent 
things  that  are  true  about  it:  that  seen  from  behind  at 
a distance  its  head  looks  like  an  enormous  mushroom 
growing  in  the  sand,  that  its  cheeks  are  swelled  inordi- 
nately, that  its  thick-lipped  mouth  is  legal,  that  from 
certain  places  it  bears  a resemblance  to  a prize  bull- 
dog. All  this  does  not  matter  at  all.  What  does 
matter  is  that  into  the  conception  and  execution  of  the 
Sphinx  has  been  poured  a supreme  imaginative  power. 
He  who  created  it  looked  beyond  Egypt,  beyond  the 
life  of  man.  He  grasped  the  conception  of  Eternity, 
and  realized  the  nothingness  of  Time,  and  he  rendered 
it  in  stone. 

I can  imagine  the  most  determined  atheist  looking 
at  the  Sphinx  and,  in  a flash,  not  merely  believing,  but 
feeling  that  he  had  before  him  proof  of  the  life  of  the 
soul  beyond  the  grave,  of  the  life  of  the  soul  of  Khufu 
beyond  the  tomb  of  his  Pyramid.  Always  as  you  re- 


22 


THE  SPHINX 


turn  to  the  Sphinx  you  wonder  at  it  more,  you  adore 
more  strangely  its  repose,  you  steep  yourself  more  in- 
timately in  the  aloof  peace  that  seems  to  emanate  from 
it  as  light  emanates  from  the  sun.  And  as  you  look  on 
it  at  last  perhaps  you  understand  the  infinite;  you  un- 
derstand where  is  the  bourne  to  which  the  finite  flows 
with  all  its  greatness,  as  the  great  Nile  flows  from  be- 
yond Victoria  Nyanza  to  the  sea. 

And  as  the  wonder  of  the  Sphinx  takes  possession 
of  you  gradually,  so  gradually  do  you  learn  to  feel  the 
majesty  of  the  Pyramids  of  Ghizeh.  Unlike  the  Step 
Pyramid  of  Sakkara,  which,  even  when  one  is  near  it, 
looks  like  a small  mountain,  part  of  the  land  on  which 
it  rests;  the  Pyramids  of  Ghizeh  look  what  they  are  — 
artificial  excrescences,  invented  and  carried  out  by  man, 
expressions  of  man’s  greatness.  Exquisite  as  they  are 
as  features  of  the  drowsy  golden  landscape  at  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  I think  they  look  most  wonderful  at 
night,  when  they  are  black  beneath  the  stars.  On  many 
nights  I have  sat  in  the  sand  at  a distance  and  looked 
at  them,  and  always,  and  increasingly,  they  have  stirred 
my  imagination.  Their  profound  calm,  their  classical 
simplicity,  are  greatly  emphasized  when  no  detail  can 
be  seen/when  they  are  but  black  shapes  towering  to  the 
stars.  They  seem  to  aspire  then  like  prayers  prayed 
by  one  who  has  said,  “God  does  not  need  my  prayers, 
but  I need  them.”  In  their  simplicity  they  suggest  a 
crowd  of  thoughts,  and  of  desires.  Guy  de  Maupassant 

23 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

has  said  that  of  all  the  arts  architecture  is  perhaps  the 
most  esthetic,  the  most  mysterious,  and  the  most 
nourished  by  ideas.  How  true  this  is  you  feel  as  you 
look  at  the  Great  Pyramid  by  night.  It  seems  to 
breathe  out  mystery.  The  immense  base  recalls  to  you 
the  labyrinth  within ; the  long  descent  from  the  tiny  slit 
that  gives  you  entrance,  your  uncertain  steps  in  its  hot, 
eternal  night,  your  falls  on  the  ice-like  surfaces  of  its 
polished  blocks  of  stone,  the  crushing  weight  that  seemed 
to  lie  on  your  heart  as  you  stole  uncertainly  on,  sum- 
moned almost  as  by  the  desert;  your  sensation  of  being 
forever  imprisoned,  taken  and  hidden  by  a monster  from 
Egypt’s  wonderful  light,  as  you  stood  in  the  central 
chamber,  and  realized  the  stone  ocean  into  whose 
depths,  like  some  intrepid  diver,  you  had  dared  delib- 
erately to  come.  And  then  your  eyes  travel  up  the 
slowly  shrinking  walls  till  they  reach  the  dark  point 
which  is  the  top.  There  you  stood  with  Abou,  who 
spends  half  his  life  on  the  highest  stone,  hostages  of 
the  sun,  bathed  in  light  and  air  that  perhaps  came  to 
you  from  the  Gold  Coast.  And  you  saw  men  and 
camels  like  flies,  and  Cairo  like  a gray  blur,  and  the 
Mokattam  hills  almost  as  a higher  ridge  of  the  sands. 
The  mosque  of  Mohammed  Ali  was  like  a cup  turned 
over.  Far  below  slept  the  dead  in  that  graveyard  of  the 
Sphinx,  with  its  pale  stones,  its  sand,  its  palm,  its  “Syca- 
mores of  the  South,”  once  worshiped  and  regarded  as 
Hathor’s  living  body.  And  beyond  them  on  one  side 

24 


the  sphinx  and  the  second  pyramid 


THE  SPHINX 


were  the  sleeping  waters,  with  islands  small,  surely,  as 
delicate  Egyptian  hands,  and  on  the  other  the  great 
desert  that  stretches,  so  the  Bedouins  say,  on  and  on 
“for  a march  of  a thousand  days.” 

That  base  and  that  summit — what  suggestion  and 
what  mystery  in  their  contrast!  What  sober,  eternal 
beauty  in  the  dark  line  which  unites  them,  now  sharply, 
yet  softly,  defined  against  the  night,  which  is  purple  as 
the  one  garment  of  the  fellah!  That  line  leads  the  soul 
irresistibly  from  earth  to  the  stars. 


27 


Ill 


SAKKARA 

JT  was  the  “Little  Christmas”  of  the  Egyptians  as 
I rode  to  Sakkara,  after  seeing  a wonderful  feat, 
the  ascent  and  descent  of  the  second  Pyramid 
in  nineteen  minutes  by  a young  Bedouin  called  Mo- 
hammed Ali,  who  very  seriously  informed  me  that  the 
only  Roumi  who  had  ever  reached  the  top  was  an 
“American  gentlemens”  called  Mark  Twain,  on  his  first 
visit  to  Egypt.  On  his  second  visit,  Ali  said,  Mr. 
Twain  had  a bad  foot,  and  declared  he  could  not  be 
bothered  with  the  second  Pyramid.  He  had  been  up 
and  down  it  once  without  a guide ; he  had  disturbed  the 
jackal  which  lives  near  its  summit,  and  which  I saw 
running  in  the  sunshine  as  Ali  drew  near  its  lair,  and  he 
was  satisfied  to  rest  on  his  immortal  laurels.  To  the 
Bedouins  of  the  Pyramids  Mark  Twain’s  world-wide 
celebrity  is  owing  to  one  fact  alone:  he  is  the  only 
Roumi  who  has  climbed  the  second  Pyramid.  That  is 
why  his  name  is  known  to  every  one. 

It  was  the  “ Little  Christmas,”  and  from  the  villages 
in  the  plain  the  Egyptians  came  pouring  out  to  visit 

2 8 


THE  STEF  PYRAMID  OF  SAKKARA 


SAKKARA 


their  dead  in  the  desert  cemeteries  as  I passed  by  to 
visit  the  dead  in  the  tombs  far  off  on  the  horizon. 
Women,  swathed  in  black,  gathered  in  groups  and 
jumped  monotonously  up  and  down,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  stained  hands  clapping,  and  strange  and  weary 
songs.  Tiny  children  blew  furiously  into  tin  trumpets, 
emitting  sounds  that  were  terribly  European.  Men 
strode  seriously  by,  or  stood  in  knots  among  the 
graves,  talking  vivaciously  of  the  things  of  this  life. 
As  the  sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  this  visit  to  the 
dead  became  a carnival  of  the  living.  Laughter  and 
shrill  cries  of  merriment  betokened  the  resignation  of 
the  mourners.  The  sand-dunes  were  black  with  run- 
ning figures,  racing,  leaping,  chasing  one  another,  roll- 
ing over  and  over  in  the  warm  and  golden  grains. 
Some  sat  among  the  graves  and  ate.  Some  sang. 
Some  danced.  I saw  no  one  praying,  after  the  sun 
was  up.  The  Great  Pyramid  of  Ghizeh  was  trans- 
formed in  this  morning  hour,  and  gleamed  like  a marble 
mountain,  or  like  the  hill  covered  with  salt  at  El- 
Outaya,  in  Algeria.  As  we  went  on  it  sank  down  into 
the  sands,  until  at  last  I could  see  only  a small  section 
with  its  top,  which  looked  almost  as  pointed  as  a 
gigantic  needle.  Abou  was  there  on  the  hot  stones  in 
the  golden  eye  of  the  sun  — Abou  who  lives  to  respect 
his  Pyramid,  and  to  serve  Turkish  coffee  to  those  who 
are  determined  enough  to  climb  it.  Before  me  the 
Step  Pyramid  rose,  brown  almost  as  bronze,  out  of  the 

3 3 1 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


sands  here  desolate  and  pallid.  Soon  I was  in  the 
house  of  Marriette,  between  the  little  sphinxes. 

Near  Cairo,  although  the  desert  is  real  desert,  it 
does  not  give,  to  me,  at  any  rate,  the  immense  im- 
pression of  naked  sterility,  of  almost  brassy,  sunbaked 
fierceness,  which  often  strikes  one  in  the  Sahara  to  the 
south  of  Algeria,  where  at  midday  one  sometimes  has 
a feeling  of  being  lost  upon  a waste  of  metal,  gleaming, 
angry,  tigerish  in  color.  Here,  in  Egypt,  both  the 
people  and  the  desert  seem  gentler,  safer,  more  amiable. 
Yet  these  tombs  of  Sakkara  are  hidden  in  a desolation 
of  the  sands,  peculiarly  blanched  and  mournful;  and  as 
you  wander  from  tomb  to  tomb,  descending  and  ascend- 
ing, stealing  through  great  galleries  beneath  the  sands, 
creeping  through  tubes  of  stone,  crouching  almost  on 
hands  and  knees  in  the  sultry  chambers  of  the  dead,  the 
awfulness  of  the  passing  away  of  dynasties  and  of  races 
comes,  like  a cloud,  upon  your  spirit.  But  this  cloud 
lifts  and  floats  from  you  in  the  cheerful  tomb  of  Thi, 
that  royal  councilor,  that  scribe  and  confidant,  whose 
life  must  have  been  passed  in  a round  of  serene  ac- 
tivities, amid  a sneering,  though  doubtless  admiring, 
population. 

Into  this  tomb  of  white,  vivacious  figures,  gay  al- 
most, though  never  wholly  frivolous,  for  these  men 
were  full  of  purpose,  full  of  an  ardor  that  seduces  even 
where  it  seems  grotesque,  I took  with  me  a child  of  ten 
called  Ali,  from  the  village  of  Kafiah;  and  as  I looked 

3 2 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE  TOMB  OF  THI 


SAKKARA 


from  him  to  the  walls  around  us,  rather  than  the  pass- 
ing away  of  the  races,  I realized  the  persistence  of  type. 
For  everywhere  I saw  the  face  of  little  Ali,  with  every 
feature  exactly  reproduced.  Here  he  was  bending  over 
a sacrifice,  leading  a sacred  bull,  feeding  geese  from  a 
cup,  roasting  a chicken,  pulling  a boat,  carpentering,  pol- 
ishing, conducting  a monkey  for  a walk,  or  merely  sit- 
ting bolt  upright  and  sneering.  There  were  lines  of 
little  Alis  with  their  hands  held  to  their  breasts,  their 
faces  in  profile,  their  knees  rigid,  in  the  happy  tomb  of 
Thi;  but  he  glanced  at  them  unheeding,  did  not  rec- 
ognize his  ancestors.  And  he  did  not  care  to  pene- 
trate into  the  tombs  of  Mera  and  Meri-Ra-ankh,  into 
the  Serapeum  and  the  Mestaba  of  Ptah-hotep.  Per- 
haps he  was  right.  The  Serapeum  is  grand  in  its  vast- 
ness, with  its  long  and  high  galleries  and  its  mighty 
vaults  containing  the  huge  granite  sarcophagi  of  the 
sacred  bulls  of  Apis ; Mera,  red  and  white,  welcomes 
you  from  an  elevated  niche  benignly;  Ptah-hotep, 
priest  of  the  fifth  dynasty,  receives  you,  seated  at  a 
table  that  resembles  a rake  with  long,  yellow  teeth 
standing  on  its  handle,  and  drinking  stiffly  a cup  of 
wine.  You  see  upon  the  wall  near  by,  with  sympathy, 
a patient  being  plied  by  a naked  and  evidently  an  un- 
yielding physician  with  medicine  from  ajar  that  might 
have  been  visited  by  Morgiana,  a musician  playing 
upon  an  instrument  like  a huge  and  stringless  harp. 
But  it  is  the  happy  tomb  of  Thi  that  lingers  in  your 

35 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


memory.  In  that  tomb  one  sees  proclaimed  with  a 
marvelous  ingenuity  and  expressiveness  the  joy  and 
the  activity  of  life.  Thi  must  have  loved  life ; loved 
prayer  and  sacrifice,  loved  sport  and  war,  loved  feasting 
and  gaiety,  labor  of  the  hands  and  of  the  head,  loved 
the  arts,  the  music  of  flute  and  harp,  singing  by  the 
lingering  and  plaintive  voices  which  seem  to  express 
the  essence  of  the  East,  loved  sweet  odors,  loved  sweet 
women, — do  we  not  see  him  sitting  to  receive  offerings 
with  his  wife  beside  him? — loved  the  clear  nights  and 
the  radiant  days  that  in  Egypt  make  glad  the  heart  of 
man.  He  must  have  loved  the  splendid  gift  of  life,  and 
used  it  completely.  And  so  little  Ali  did  very  right  to 
make  his  sole  obeisance  at  Thi’s  delicious  tomb,  from 
which  death  itself  seems  banished  by  the  soft  and  em- 
bracing radiance  of  the  almost  living  walls. 

This  delicate  cheerfulness,  a quite  airy  gaiety  of  life, 
is  often  combined  in  Egypt,  and  most  beautifully  and 
happily  combined,  with  tremendous  solidity,  heavy  im- 
pressiveness, a hugeness  that  is  well-nigh  tragic ; and 
it  supplies  a relief  to  eye,  to  mind,  to  soul,  that  is  sweet 
and  refreshing  as  the  trickle  of  a tarantella  from  a reed 
flute  heard  under  the  shadows  of  a temple  of  Hercules. 
Life  showers  us  with  contrasts.  Art,  which  gives  to 
us  a second  and  a more  withdrawn  life,  opening  to  us 
a door  through  which  we  pass  to  our  dreams,  may  well 
imitate  life  in  this. 


36 


IV 


ABYDOS 

THROUGH  a long  and  golden  noontide,  and  on 
into  an  afternoon  whose  opulence  of  warmth 
and  light  it  seemed  could  never  wane,  I sat 
alone,  or  wandered  gently  quite  alone,  in  the  Temple 
of  Seti  I at  Abydos.  Here  again  I was  in  a place  of 
the  dead.  In  Egypt  one  ever  seeks  the  dead  in  the 
sunshine,  black  vaults  in  the  land  of  the  gold.  But 
here  in  Abydos  I was  companioned  by  whiteness.  The 
general  effect  of  Seti’s  mighty  temple  is  that  it  is  a 
white  temple  when  seen  in  full  sunshine  and  beneath 
a sky  of  blinding  blue.  In  an  arid  place  it  stands,  just 
beyond  an  Egyptian  village  that  is  a maze  of  dust,  of 
children,  of  animals,  and  flies.  The  last  blind  houses 
of  the  village,  brown  as  brown  paper,  confront  it  on  a 
mound,  and  as  I came  toward  it  a girl-child  swathed  in 
purple,  with  ear-rings,  and  a twist  of  orange  handker- 
chief above  her  eyes,  full  of  cloud  and  fire,  leaned 
from  a roof,  sinuously  as  a young  snake,  to  watch  me. 
On  each  side,  descending,  were  white,  ruined  walls, 
stretched  out  like  defaced  white  arms  of  the  temple  to 
receive  me.  I stood  still  for  a moment  and  looked  at 


37 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


the  narrow,  severely  simple  doorway,  at  the  twelve 
broken  columns  advanced  on  either  side,  white  and 
grayish  white  with  their  right  angles,  their  once  painted 
figures  now  almost  wholly  colorless. 

Here  lay  the  Osirians,  those  blessed  dead  of  the  land 
of  Egypt,  who  worshiped  the  Judge  of  the  Dead,  the 
Lord  of  the  Underworld,  and  who  hoped  for  immortal- 
ity through  him — Osiris,  husband  of  Isis,  Osiris,  re- 
ceiver of  prayers,  Osiris  the  sun  who  will  not  be  con- 
quered by  night,  but  eternally  rises  again,  and  so  is  the 
symbol  of  the  resurrection  of  the  soul.  It  is  said  that 
Set,  the  power  of  Evil,  tore  the  body  of  Osiris  into 
fourteen  fragments  and  scattered  them  over  the  land. 
But  multitudes  of  worshipers  of  Osiris  believed  him 
buried  near  Abydos  and,  like  those  who  loved  the 
sweet  songs  of  Hafiz,  they  desired  to  be  buried  near 
him  whom  they  adored;  and  so  this  place  became  a 
place  of  the  dead,  a place  of  many  prayers,  a white 
place  of  many  longings. 

I was  glad  to  be  alone  there.  The  guardian  left  me 
in  perfect  peace.  I happily  forgot  him.  I sat  down  in 
the  shadow  of  a column  upon  its  mighty  projecting 
base.  The  sky  was  blinding  blue.  Great  bees  hummed, 
like  bourdons,  through  the  silence,  deepening  the  al- 
most heavy  calm.  These  columns,  architraves,  door- 
ways, how  mighty,  how  grandly  strong  they  were! 
And  yet  soon  I began  to  be  aware  that  even  here, 
where  surely  one  should  read  only  the  Book  of  the  Dead, 

38 


TEMPLE  OF  SETI  I,  ABYDOS 


ABYDOS 


or  bend  down  to  the  hot  ground  to  listen  if  perchance 
one  might  hear  the  dead  themselves  murmuring  over 
the  chapters  of  Beatification  far  down  in  their  hidden 
tombs,  there  was  a lightness,  a gentle  gaiety  of  life,  as 
in  the  tomb  of  Thi.  The  effect  of  solidity  was  im- 
mense. These  columns  bulged,  almost  like  great  fruits 
swollen  out  by  their  heady  strength  of  blood.  They 
towered  up  in  crowds.  The  heavy  roof,  broken  in 
places  most  mercifully  to  show  squares  and  oblongs  of 
that  perfect,  calling  blue,  was  like  a frowning  brow. 
And  yet  I was  with  grace,  with  gentleness,  with  light- 
ness, because  in  the  place  of  the  dead  I was  again  with 
the  happy,  living  walls.  Above  me,  on  the  roof,  there 
was  a gleam  of  palest  blue,  like  the  blue  I have  some- 
times seen  at  morning  on  the  Ionian  sea  just  where  it 
meets  the  shore.  The  double  rows  of  gigantic  columns 
stretched  away,  tall  almost  as  forest  trees,  to  right  of 
me  and  to  left,  and  were  shut  in  by  massive  walls, 
strong  as  the  walls  of  a fortress.  And  on  these  col- 
umns, and  on  these  walls,  dead  painters  and  gravers 
had  breathed  the  sweet  breath  of  life.  Here  in  the 
sun,  for  me  alone,  as  it  seemed,  a population  followed 
their  occupations.  Men  walked,  and  kneeled,  and 
stood,  some  white  and  clothed,  some  nude,  some  red  as 
the  red  man’s  child  that  leaped  beyond  the  sea.  And 
here  was  the  lotus-flower  held  in  reverent  hands,  not 
the  rose-lotus,  but  the  blossom  that  typified  the  rising 
again  of  the  sun,  and  that,  worn  as  an  amulet,  signified 

41 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


the  gift  of  eternal  youth.  And  here  was  hawk-faced 
Horus,  and  here  a priest  offering  sacrifice  to  a god,  be- 
lief in  whom  has  long  since  passed  away.  A king  re- 
vealed himself  to  me,  adoring  Ptah,  “Father  of  the 
beginnings,”  who  established  upon  earth,  my  figures 
thought,  the  everlasting  justice,  and  again  at  the  knees 
of  Amen  burning  incense  in  his  honor.  Isis  and  Osiris 
stood  together,  and  sacrifice  was  made  before  their 
sacred  bark.  And  Seti  worshiped  them,  and  Seshta, 
goddess  of  learning,  wrote  in  the  book  of  eternity  the 
name  of  the  king. 

The  great  bees  hummed,  moving  slowly  in  the 
golden  air  among  the  mighty  columns,  passing  slowly 
among  these  records  of  lives  long  over,  but  which 
seemed  still  to  be.  And  I looked  at  the  lotus-flowers 
which  the  little  grotesque  hands  were  holding,  had  been 
holding  for  how  many  years — the  flowers  that  typified 
the  rising  again  of  the  sun  and  the  divine  gift  of  eternal 
youth.  And  I thought  of  the  bird  and  the  Sphinx,  the 
thing  that  was  whimsical  wooing  the  thing  that  was 
mighty.  And  I gazed  at  the  immense  columns  and  at 
the  light  and  little  figures  all  about  me.  Bird  and 
Sphinx,  delicate  whimsicality,  calm  and  terrific  power! 
In  Egypt  the  dead  men  have  combined  them,  and  the 
combination  has  an  irresistible  fascination,  weaves  a 
spell  that  entrances  you  in  the  sunshine  and  beneath 
the  blinding  blue.  At  Abydos  I knew  it.  And  I 
loved  the  columns  that  seemed  blown  out  with  ex- 


42 


mm; 


THE  GREAT  HALL  OF  ABYDOS 


ABYDOS 


uberant  strength,  and  I loved  the  delicate  white  walls 
that,  like  the  lotus-flower,  give  to  the  world  a youth 
that  seems  eternal — a youth  that  is  never  frivolous,  but 
that  is  full  of  the  divine,  and  yet  pathetic,  animation  of 
happy  life. 

The  great  bees  hummed  more  drowsily.  I sat  quite 
still  in  the  sun.  And  then  presently,  moved  by  some 
prompting  instinct,  I turned  my  head,  and,  far  off, 
through  the  narrow  portal  of  the  temple,  I saw  the  girl- 
child  swathed  in  purple  still  lying,  sinuously  as  a 
young  snake,  upon  the  palm-wood  roof  above  the 
brown  earth  wall  to  watch  me  with  her  eyes  of  cloud 
and  fire. 

And  upon  me,  like  cloud  and  fire — cloud  of  the 
tombs  and  the  great  temple  columns,  fire  of  the  brilliant 
life  painted  and  engraved  upon  them,  there  stole  the 
spell  of  Egypt. 


45 


V 


THE  NILE 

IDO  not  find  in  Egypt  any  more  the  strangeness 
that  once  amazed,  and  at  first  almost  bewildered 
me.  Stranger  far  is  Morocco,  stranger  the  coun- 
try beyond  Biskra,  near  Mogar,  round  Touggourt, 
even  about  El  Kantara.  There  I feel  very  far  away, 
as  a child  feels  distance  from  dear,  familiar  things.  I 
look  to  the  horizon  expectant  of  I know  not  what 
magical  occurrences,  what  mysteries.  I am  aware  of 
the  summons  to  advance  to  marvelous  lands,  where 
marvelous  things  must  happen.  I am  taken  by  that 
sensation  of  almost  trembling  magic  which  came  to  me 
when  first  I saw  a mirage  far  out  in  the  Sahara.  But 
Egypt,  though  it  contains  so  many  marvels,  has  no 
longer  for  me  the  marvelous  atmosphere.  Its  keynote 
is  seductiveness. 

In  Egypt  one  feels  very  safe.  Smiling  policemen  in 
clothes  of  spotless  white — emblematic,  surely,  of  their 
innocence ! — seem  to  be  everywhere,  standing  calmly 
in  the  sun.  Very  gentle,  very  tender,  although  per- 
haps not  very  true,  are  the  Bedouin  at  the  Pyramids. 
Up  the  Nile  the  fellaheen  smile  as  kindly  as  the  police- 

46 


VILLAGE  ON  THE  SITE  OF  ANCIENT  MEMPHIS 


THE  NILE 


men,  smile  protectingly  upon  you,  as  if  they  would  say, 
“ Allah  has  placed  us  here  to  take  care  of  the  confiding 
stranger.”  No  ferocious  demands  for  money  fall  upon 
my  ears;  only  an  occasional  suggestion  is  subtly  con- 
veyed to  me  that  even  the  poor  must  live  and  that  I 
am  immensely  rich.  An  amiable,  an  almost  enticing 
seductiveness  seems  emanating  from  the  fertile  soil, 
shining  in  the  golden  air,  gleaming  softly  in  the  amber 
sands,  dimpling  in  the  brown,  the  mauve,  the  silver 
eddies  of  the  Nile.  It  steals  upon  one.  It  ripples  over 
one.  It  laps  one  as  if  with  warm  and  scented  waves. 
A sort  of  lustrous  languor  overtakes  one.  In  physi- 
cal well-being  one  sinks  down,  and  with  wide  eyes  one 
gazes  and  listens  and  enjoys,  and  thinks  not  of  the 
morrow. 

The  dahabiyeh — her  very  name,  the  Loulia , has  a 
gentle,  seductive,  cooing  sound — drifts  broadside  to  the 
current  with  furled  sails,  or  glides  smoothly  on  before 
an  amiable  north  wind  with  sails  unfurled.  Upon  the 
bloomy  banks,  rich  brown  in  color,  the  brown  men 
stoop,  and  straighten  themselves,  and  stoop  again,  and 
sing.  The  sun  gleams  on  their  copper  skins,  which 
look  polished  and  metallic.  Crouched  in  his  net  be- 
hind the  drowsy  oxen,  the  little  boy  circles  the  live- 
long day  with  the  sakieh.  And  the  sakieh  raises  its 
wailing,  wayward  voice  and  sings  to  the  shadoof;  and 
the  shadoof  sings  to  the  sakieh  ; and  the  lifted  water 
falls  and  flows  away  into  the  green  wilderness  of  doura 

49 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


that,  like  a miniature  forest,  spreads  on  every  hand  to 
the  low  mountains,  which  do  not  perturb  the  spirit,  as 
do  the  iron  mountains  of  Algeria.  And  always  the 
sun  is  shining,  and  the  body  is  drinking  in  its  warmth, 
and  the  soul  is  drinking  in  its  gold.  And  always  the 
ears  are  full  of  warm  and  drowsy  and  monotonous 
music.  And  always  the  eyes  see  the  lines  of  brown 
bodies,  on  the  brown  river-banks  above  the  brown 
waters,  bending,  straightening,  bending,  straightening, 
with  an  exquisitely  precise  monotony.  And  always 
the  Lonlici  seems  to  be  drifting,  so  quietly  she  slips 
up,  or  down,  the  level  waterway. 

And  one  drifts,  too;  one  can  but  drift,  happily, 
sleepily,  forgetting  every  care.  From  Abydos  to  Den- 
derah  one  drifts,  and  from  Denderah  to  Karnak,  to 
Luxor,  to  all  the  marvels  on  the  western  shore;  and  on 
to  Edfu,  to  Kom  Ombos,  to  Assuan,  and  perhaps  even 
into  Nubia,  to  Abu-Simbel  and  to  Wadi-Halfa.  Life 
on  the  Nile  is  a long  dream,  golden  and  sweet  as 
honey  of  Hymettus.  For  I let  the  “divine  serpent,” 
who  at  Philae  may  be  seen  issuing  from  her  charmed 
cavern,  take  me  very  quietly  to  see  the  abodes  of  the 
dead,  the  halls  of  the  vanished,  upon  her  green  and 
sterile  shores.  I know  nothing  of  the  bustling,  shriek- 
ing steamer  that  defies  her,  churning  into  angry  waves 
her  waters  for  the  edification  of  those  who  would  “do” 
Egypt  and  be  gone  before  they  know  her. 

If  you  are  in  a hurry,  do  not  come  to  Egypt.  To 

5° 


THE  NILE 


hurry  in  Egypt  is  as  wrong  as  to  fall  asleep  in  Wall 
Street,  or  to  sit  in  the  Greek  Theater  at  Taormina, 
reading  “How  to  Make  a Fortune  with  a Capital  of 
Fifty  Pounds.” 


5 1 


VI 


DENDERAH 

FROM  Abydos,  home  of  the  cult  of  Osiris,  judge 
of  the  dead,  I came  to  Denderah,  the  great 
temple  of  the  “Lady  of  the  Underworld,”  as 
the  goddess  Hathor  was  sometimes  called,  though  she 
was  usually  worshiped  as  the  Egyptian  Aphrodite, 
goddess  of  joy,  goddess  of  love  and  loveliness.  It  was 
early  morning  when  I went  ashore.  The  sun  was 
above  the  eastern  hills,  and  a boy,  clad  in  a rope  of 
plaited  grass,  sent  me  half  shyly  the  greeting,  “May 
your  day  be  happy!” 

Youth  is,  perhaps,  the  most  divine  of  all  the  gifts  of 
the  gods,  as  those  who  wore  the  lotus-blossom  amulet 
believed  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  Denderah,  ap- 
propriately, is  a very  young  Egyptian  temple,  probably, 
indeed,  the  youngest  of  all  the  temples  on  the  Nile. 
Its  youthfulness — it  is  only  about  two  thousand  years 
of  age — identifies  it  happily  with  the  happiness  and 
beauty  of  its  presiding  deity,  and  as  I rode  toward  it 
on  the  canal-bank  in  the  young  freshness  of  the  morn- 
ing, I thought  of  the  goddess  Safekh  and  of  the  sacred 
Persea-tree.  When  Safekh  inscribed  upon  a leaf  of 

5 2 


ON  THE  ROOF  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HATHOR,  DENDF.RAH 


DENDERAH 


the  Persea-tree  the  name  of  king  or  conqueror,  he 
gained  everlasting  life.  Was  it  the  life  of  youth?  An 
everlasting  life  of  middle  age  might  be  a doubtful  bene- 
fit. And  then  mentally  I added,  “unless  one  lived  in 
Egypt.”  For  here  the  years  drop  from  one,  and  every 
golden  hour  brings  to  one  surely  another  drop  of  the 
wondrous  essence  that  sets  time  at  defiance  and  charms 
sad  thoughts  away. 

Unlike  White  Abydos,  White  Denderah  stands 
apart  from  habitations,  in  a still  solitude  upon  a 
blackened  mound.  From  far  off  I saw  the  fa9ade, 
large,  bare,  and  sober,  rising,  in  a nakedness  as  com- 
plete as  that  of  Aphrodite  rising  from  the  wave,  out  of 
the  plain  of  brown,  alluvial  soil  that  was  broken  here 
and  there  by  a sharp  green  of  growing  things.  There 
was  something  of  sadness  in  the  scene,  and  again  I 
thought  of  Hathor  as  the  “Lady  of  the  Underworld,” 
some  deep-eyed  being,  with  a pale  brow,  hair  like  the 
night,  and  yearning,  wistful  hands  stretched  out  in  sup- 
plication. There  was  ~a  hush  upon  this  place.  The 
loud  and  vehement  cry  of  the  shadoof-man  died  away. 
The  sakieh  droned  in  my  ears  no  more  like  distant 
Sicilian  pipes  playing  at  Natale.  I felt  a breath  from 
the  desert.  And,  indeed,  the  desert  was  near — that 
realistic  desert  which  suggests  to  the  traveler  ap- 
proaches to  the  sea,  so  that  beyond  each  pallid  dune,  as 
he  draws  near  it,  he  half  expects  to  hear  the  lapping  of 
the  waves.  Presently,  when,  having  ascended  that 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


marvelous  staircase  of  the  New  Year,  walking  in  pro- 
cession with  the  priests  upon  its  walls  toward  the  rays 
of  Ra,  I came  out  upon  the  temple  roof,  and  looked 
upon  the  desert — upon  sheeny  sands,  almost  like  slopes 
of  satin  shining  in  the  sun,  upon  paler  sands  in  the 
distance,  holding  an  Arab  camfto  santo,  in  which  rose 
the  little  creamy  cupolas  of  a sheik’s  tomb,  surrounded 
by  a creamy  wall,  those  little  cupolas  gave  to  me  a 
feeling  of  the  real,  the  irresistible  Africa  such  as  I had 
not  known  since  I had  been  in  Egypt;  and  I thought 
I heard  in  the  distance  the  ceaseless  hum  of  praying 
and  praising  voices. 

“God  hath  rewarded  the  faithful  with  gardens 
through  which  flow  rivulets.  They  shall  be  forever 
therein,  and  that  is  the  reward  of  the  virtuous.” 

The  sensation  of  solemnity  which  overtook  me  as  I 
approached  the  temple  deepened  when  I drew  close  to 
it,  when  I stood  within  it.  In  the  first  hall,  mighty, 
magnificent,  full  of  enormous  columns  from  which  faces 
of  Hathor  once  looked  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass, 
I found  only  one  face  almost  complete,  saved  from  the 
fury  of  fanatics  by  the  protection  of  the  goddess  of 
chance,  in  whom  the  modern  Egyptian  so  implicitly  be- 
lieves. In  shape  it  was  a delicate  oval.  In  the  long 
eyes,  about  the  brow,  the  cheeks,  there  was  a strained 
expression  that  suggested  to  me  more  than  a gravity — 
almost  an  anguish — of  spirit.  As  I looked  at  it,  I 
thought  of  Eleanora  Duse.  Was  this  the  ideal  of  joy 

56 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  HATHOR,  DENDERAH 


DENDERAH 


in  the  time  of  the  Ptolemies?  Joy  may  be  rapturous, 
or  it  may  be  serene;  but  could  it  ever  be  like  this?  The 
pale,  delicious  blue  that  here  and  there,  in  tiny  sections, 
broke  the  almost  haggard,  grayish  whiteness  of  this 
first  hall  with  the  roof  of  black,  like  bits  of  an  evening 
sky  seen  through  tiny  window-slits  in  a somber  room, 
suggested  joy,  was  joy  summed  up  in  color.  But 
Hathor’s  face  was  weariful  and  sad. 

From  the  gloom  of  the  inner  halls  came  a sound, 
loud,  angry,  menacing,  as  I walked  on,  a sound  of 
menace  and  an  odor,  heavy  and  deathlike.  Only  in  the 
first  hall  had  those  builders  and  decorators  of  two 
thousand  years  ago  been  moved  by  their  conception  of 
the  goddess  to  hail  her,  to  worship  her,  with  the  purity 
of  white,  with  the  sweet  gaiety  of  turquoise.  Or  so  it 
seems  to-day,  when  the  passion  of  Christianity  against 
Hathor  has  spent  itself  and  died.  Now  Christians 
come  to  seek  what  Christian  Copts  destroyed;  wander 
through  the  deserted  courts,  desirous  of  looking  upon 
the  faces  that  have  long  since  been  hacked  to  pieces. 
A more  benign  spirit  informs  our  world,  but,  alas! 
Hathor  has  been  sacrificed  to  the  devilries  of  old.  And 
it  is  well,  perhaps,  that  her  temple  should  be  sad,  like 
a place  of  silent  waiting  for  the  glories  that  are  gone. 

With  every  step  my  melancholy  grew.  Encompassed 
by  gloomy  odors,  assailed  by  the  clamor  of  gigantic 
bats,  which  flew  furiously  among  the  monstrous  pillars 
near  a roof  ominous  as  a storm-cloud,  my  spirit  was 

5 59 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

haunted  by  the  sad  eyes  of  Hathor,  which  gaze  forever 
from  that  column  in  the  first  hall.  Were  they  always 
like  that?  Once  that  face  dwelt  with  a crowd  of  other 
faces,  looked  upon  a glory  of  worship.  And  all  the 
other  faces  have  gone,  and  all  the  glory  has  passed. 
And,  like  so  many  of  the  living,  the  goddess  has  paid 
for  her  splendors.  The  pendulum  swung,  and  where 
men  adored,  men  hated  her — her  the  goddess  of  love 
and  loveliness.  And  as  the  human  face  changes  when 
terror  and  sorrow  come,  I felt  as  if  Hathor’s  face  of 
stone  had  changed  upon  its  column,  looking  toward 
the  Nile,  in  obedience  to  the  anguish  in  her  heart;  I 
felt  as  if  Denderah  were  a majestic  house  of  grief.  So 
I must  always  think  of  it,  dark,  tragic,  and  superb. 
The  Egyptians  once  believed  that  when  death  came  to 
a man,  the  soul  of  him,  which  they  called  the  Ba, 
winged  its  way  to  the  gods,  but  that,  moved  by  a sweet 
unselfishness,  it  returned  sometime  to  his  tomb,  to  give 
comfort  to  the  poor,  deserted  mummy.  Upon  the  lids 
of  sarcophagi  it  is  sometimes  represented  as  a bird, 
flying  down  to,  or  resting  upon,  the  mummy.  As  I 
went  onward  in  the  darkness,  among  the  columns,  over 
the  blocks  of  stone  that  form  the  pavements,  seeing 
vaguely  the  sacred  boats  upon  the  walls,  Horus  and 
Thoth,  the  king  before  Osiris;  as  I mounted  and  de- 
scended with  the  priests  to  roof  and  floor,  I longed, 
instead  of  the  clamor  of  the  bats,  to  hear  the  light 
flutter  of  the  soft  wings  of  the  Ba  of  Hathor,  flying 

60 


ifWPPS.  E> 
j:  i><:  v 

. i 


mmk 


FIGURES  OF  CLEOPATRA  AND  HER  SON  C^SARION  ON  THE 
WALL  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HATHOR 


DENDERAH 


from  Paradise  to  this  sad  temple  of  the  desert  to  bring 
her  comfort  in  the  gloom.  I thought  of  her  as  a poor 
woman,  suffering  as  only  women  can  in  loneliness. 

In  the  museum  at  Cairo  there  is  the  mummy  of  “the 
lady  Amanit,  priestess  of  Hathor.”  She  lies  there 
upon  her  back,  with  her  thin  body  slightly  turned  to- 
ward the  left  side,  as  if  in  an  effort  to  change  her  posi- 
tion. Her  head  is  completely  turned  to  the  same  side. 
Her  mouth  is  wide  open,  showing  all  the  teeth.  The 
tongue  is  lolling  out.  Upon  the  head  the  thin,  brown 
hair  makes  a line  above  the  little  ear,  and  is  mingled  at 
the  back  of  the  head  with  false  tresses.  Round  the 
neck  is  a mass  of  ornaments,  of  amulets  and  beads. 
The  right  arm  and  hand  lie  along  the  body.  The  ex- 
pression of  “the  lady  Amanit”  is  very  strange,  and 
very  subtle;  for  it  combines  horror — which  implies 
activity — with  a profound,  an  impenetrable  repose,  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  disturbance.  In  the  temple  of 
Denderah  I fancied  the  lady  Amanit  ministering  sadly, 
even  terribly,  to  a lonely  goddess,  moving  in  fear 
through  an  eternal  gloom,  dying  at  last  there,  over- 
whelmed by  tasks  too  heavy  for  that  tiny  body, 
the  ultra-sensitive  spirit  that  inhabited  it.  And  now 
she  sleeps — one  feels  that,  as  one  gazes  at  the  mummy 
— very  profoundly,  though  not  yet  very  calmly,  the 
lady  Amanit.  But  her  goddess — still  she  wakes  upon 
her  column. 

When  I came  out  at  last  into  the  sunlight  of  the 

63 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


growing  day,  I circled  the  temple,  skirting  its  gigantic, 
corniced  walls,  from  which  at  intervals  the  heads  and 
paws  of  resting  lions  protrude,  to  see  another  woman 
whose  fame  for  loveliness  and  seduction  is  almost  as 
legendary  as  Aphrodite’s.  It  is  fitting  enough  that 
Cleopatra’s  form  should  be  graven  upon  the  temple  of 
Hathor;  fitting,  also,  that  though  I found  her  in  the 
presence  of  deities,  and  in  the  company  of  her  son, 
Caesarion,  her  face,  which  is  in  profile,  should  have 
nothing  of  Hathor’s  sad  impressiveness.  This,  no 
doubt,  is  not  the  real  Cleopatra.  Nevertheless,  this 
face  suggests  a certain  self-complacent  cruelty  and 
sensuality  essentially  human,  and  utterly  detached  from 
all  divinity,  whereas  in  the  face  of  the  goddess  there  is 
a something  remote,  and  even  distantly  intellectual, 
which  calls  the  imagination  to  “the  fields  beyond.” 

As  I rode  back  toward  the  river,  I saw  again  the 
boy  clad  in  the  rope  of  plaited  grass,  and  again  he  said, 
less  shyly,  “May  your  day  be  happy!”  It  was  a kindly 
wish.  In  the  dawn  I had  felt  it  to  be  almost  a prophecy. 
But  now  I was  haunted  by  the  face  of  the  goddess  of 
Denderah,  and  I remembered  the  legend  of  the  lovely 
Lai's,  who,  when  she  began  to  age,  covered  herself  from 
the  eyes  of  men  with  a veil,  and  went  every  day  at 
evening  to  look  upon  her  statue,  in  which  the  genius 
of  Praxiteles  had  rendered  permanent  the  beauty  the 
woman  could  not  keep.  One  evening,  hanging  to  the 
statue’s  pedestal  by  a garland  of  red  roses,  the  sculptor 

64 


DENDERAH 

found  a mirror,  upon  the  polished  disk  of  which  were 
traced  these  words: 

“Lai's,  O Goddess,  consecrates  to  thee  her  mirror: 
no  longer  able  to  see  there  what  she  was,  she  will  not 
see  there  what  she  has  become.” 

My  Hathor  of  Denderah,  the  sad-eyed  dweller  on 
the  column  in  the  first  hall,  had  she  a mirror,  would 
surely  hang  it,  as  Lais  hung  hers,  at  the  foot  of  the 
pedestal  of  the  Egyptian  Aphrodite;  had  she  a veil, 
would  surely  cover  the  face  that,  solitary  among  the 
cruel  evidences  of  Christian  ferocity,  silently  says  to 
the  gloomy  courts,  to  the  shining  desert  and  the  Nile: 
“Once  I was  worshiped,  but  I am  worshiped  no 
longer.” 


65 


VII 


KARNAK 

BUILDINGS  have  personalities.  Some  fasci- 
, nate  as  beautiful  women  fascinate;  some  charm 
as  a child  may  charm,  naively,  simply,  but  irre- 
sistibly. Some,  like  conquerors,  men  of  blood  and  iron, 
without  bowels  of  mercy,  pitiless  and  determined,  strike 
awe  to  the  soul,  mingled  with  the  almost  gasping  ad- 
miration that  power  wakes  in  man.  Some  bring  a 
sense  of  heavenly  peace  to  the  heart.  Some,  like  cer- 
tain temples  of  the  Greeks,  by  their  immense  dignity, 
speak  to  the  nature  almost  as  music  speaks,  and  change 
anxiety  to  trust.  Some  tug  at  the  hidden  chords  of 
romance  and  rouse  a trembling  response.  Some  seem 
to  be  mingling  their  tears  with  the  tears  of  the  dead; 
some  their  laughter  with  the  laughter  of  the  living. 
The  traveler,  sailing  up  the  Nile,  holds  intercourse  with 
many  of  these  different  personalities.  He  is  sad,  per- 
haps, as  I was  with  Denderah;  dreams  in  the  sun  with 
Abydos;  muses  with  Luxor  beneath  the  little,  tapering 
minaret  whence  the  call  to  prayer  drops  down  to  be 
answered  by  the  angelus  bell;  falls  into  a reverie  in 

66 


INTERIOR,  TEMPLE  OF  KHUNS,  KARNAK 


KARNAK 


the  “thinking  place”  of  Rameses  II,  near  to  the  giant 
that  was  once  the  mightiest  of  all  Egyptian  statues; 
eagerly  wakes  to  the  fascination  of  record  at  Deir-el- 
Bahari;  worships  in  Edfu;  by  Philae  is  carried  into  a 
realm  of  delicate  magic,  where  engineers  are  not. 
Each  prompts  him  to  a different  mood;  each  wakes  in 
his  nature  a different  response.  And  at  Karnak  what 
is  he?  What  mood  enfolds  him  there?  Is  he  sad, 
thoughtful,  awed,  or  gay? 

An  old  lady,  in  a helmet  and  other  things  considered 
no  doubt  by  her  as  suited  to  Egypt  rather  than  to  her- 
self, remarked  in  my  hearing,  with  a Scotch  accent  and 
an  air  of  summing  up,  that  Karnak  was  “very  nice  in- 
deed.” There  she  was  wrong — Scotch  and  wrong. 
Karnak  is  not  nice.  No  temple  that  I have  seen  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Nile  is  nice.  And  Karnak  cannot  be 
summed  up  in  a phrase  or  in  many  phrases;  cannot 
even  be  adequately  described  in  few  or  many  words. 

Long  ago  I saw  it  lighted  up  with  colored  fires  one 
night  for  the  khedive,  its  ravaged  magnificence  tinted 
with  rose  and  livid  green  and  blue,  its  pylons  glitter- 
ing with  artificial  gold,  its  population  of  statues,  its 
obelisks,  and  columns,  changing  from  things  of  dream 
to  things  of  day,  from  twilight  marvels  to  shadowy 
specters,  and  from  these  to  hard  and  piercing  realities 
at  the  cruel  will  of  pigmies  crouching  by  its  walls. 
Now,  after  many  years,  I saw  it  first  quietly  by  moon- 
light after  watching  the  sunset  from  the  summit  of  the 

69 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


great  pylon.  That  was  a pageant  worth  more  than  the 
khedive’s. 

I was  in  the  air;  had  something  of  the  released  feel- 
ing I have  often  known  upon  the  tower  of  Biskra,  look- 
ing out  toward  evening  to  the  Sahara  spaces.  But 
here  I was  not  confronted  with  an  immensity  of  nature, 
but  with  a gleaming  river  and  an  immensity  of  man. 
Beneath  me  was  the  native  village,  in  the  heart  of  day- 
light dusty  and  unkempt,  but  now  becoming  charged 
with  velvety  beauty,  with  the  soft  and  heavy  mystery 
that  at  evening  is  born  among  great  palm-trees.  Along 
the  path  that  led  from  it,  coming  toward  the  avenue 
of  sphinxes  with  ram’s-heads  that  watch  forever  be- 
fore the  temple  door,  a great  white  camel  stepped,  its 
rider  a tiny  child  with  a close,  white  cap  upon  his  head. 
The  child  was  singing  to  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  or 
was  it  to  the  glory  of  Amun,  “the  hidden  one,”  once 
the  local  god  of  Thebes,  to  whom  the  grandest  temple 
in  the  world  was  dedicated?  I listened  to  the  childish, 
quavering  voice,  twittering  almost  like  a bird,  and  one 
word  alone  came  up  to  me — the  word  one  hears  in 
Egypt  from  all  the  lips  that  speak  and  sing:  from  the 
Nubians  round  their  fires  at  night,  from  the  lithe  boat- 
men of  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Nile,  from  the  Bedouins 
of  the  desert,  and  the  donkey  boys  of  the  villages, 
from  the  sheik  who  reads  one’s  future  in  water  spilt  on 
a plate,  and  the  Bisharin  with  buttered  curls  who  runs 
to  sell  one  beads  from  his  tent  among  the  sand-dunes. 


THE  GREAT  TEMPLE  OF  KARNAK 


KARNAK 

“Allah!”  the  child  was  singing  as  he  passed  upon 
his  way. 

Pigeons  circled  above  their  pretty  towers.  The  bats 
came  out,  as  if  they  knew  how  precious  is  their  black 
at  evening  against  the  ethereal  lemon  color,  the  orange, 
and  the  red.  The  little  obelisk  beyond  the  last  sphinx 
on  the  left  began  to  change,  as  in  Egypt  all  things 
change  at  sunset  — pylon  and  dusty  bush,  colossus 
and  baked  earth  hovel,  sycamore,  and  tamarisk,  statue 
and  trotting  donkey.  It  looked  like  a mysterious 
finger  pointed  in  warning  toward  the  sky.  The  Nile 
began  to  gleam.  Upon  its  steel  and  silver  torches  of 
amber  flame  were  lighted.  The  Libyan  mountains  be- 
came spectral  beyond  the  tombs  of  the  kings.  The 
tiny,  rough  cupolas  that  mark  a grave  close  to  the 
sphinxes,  in  daytime  dingy  and  poor,  now  seemed  made 
of  some  splendid  material  worthy  to  roof  the  mummy 
of  a king.  Far  off  a pool  of  the  Nile,  that  from  here 
looked  like  a little  palm-fringed  lake,  turned  ruby  red. 
The  flags  from  the  standards  of  Luxor,  among  the 
minarets,  flew  out  straight  against  a sky  that  was  pale 
as  a primrose,  almost  cold  in  its  amazing  delicacy. 

I turned,  and  behind  me  the  moon  was  risen.  Al- 
ready its  silver  rays  fell  upon  the  ruins  of  Karnak; 
upon  the  thickets  of  lotus  columns;  upon  solitary  gate- 
ways that  now  give  entrance  to  no  courts;  upon  the 
sacred  lake,  with  its  reeds,  where  the  black  water-fowl 
were  asleep;  upon  sloping  walls,  shored  up  by  enor- 

s 73 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


mous  stanchions,  like  ribs  of  some  prehistoric  leviathan; 
upon  small  chambers;  upon  fallen  blocks  of  masonry, 
fragments  of  architrave  and  pavement,  of  capital  and 
cornice;  and  upon  the  people  of  Karnak — those  fascin- 
ating people  who  still  cling  to  their  habitation  in  the 
ruins,  faithful  through  misfortune,  affectionate  with  a 
steadfastness  that  defies  the  cruelty  of  time;  upon  the 
little,  lonely  white  sphinx  with  the  woman’s  face  and  the 
downward-sloping  eyes  full  of  sleepy  seduction;  upon 
Rameses  II,  with  the  face  of  a kindly  child,  not  of  a 
king;  upon  the  sphinx,  bereft  of  its  companion,  which 
crouches  before  the  kiosk  of  Taharga,  the  king  of 
Ethiopia;  upon  those  two  who  stand  together  as  if  de- 
voted, yet  by  their  attitudes  seem  to  express  characters 
diametrically  opposed,  gray  men  and  vivid,  the  one 
with  folded  arms  calling  to  Peace,  the  other  with  arms 
stretched  down  in  a gesture  of  crude  determination, 
summoning  War,  as  if  from  the  under-world;  upon  the 
granite  foot  and  ankle  in  the  temple  of  Rameses  III, 
which  in  their  perfection,  like  the  headless  Victory  in 
Paris,  and  the  Niobide  Chiaramonti  in  the  Vatican,  sug- 
gest a great  personality,  compose  a great  personality 
that  once  met  with  is  not  to  be  forgotten : upon  these  and 
their  companions,  who  would  not  forsake  the  halls  and 
courts  where  once  they  dwelt  with  splendor,  where 
now  they  dwell  with  ruin  that  attracts  the  gaping 
world.  The  moon  was  risen,  but  the  west  was  still 
full  of  color  and  light.  It  faded.  There  was  a pause. 

74 


THE  SACRED  LOTUS  IN  THE  TEMPLE  AT  KARNAK 


KARNAK 


Only  a bar  of  dull  red,  holding  a hint  of  brown,  lay 
where  the  sun  had  sunk.  And  minutes  passed — 
minutes  for  me  full  of  silent  expectation,  while  the 
moonlight  grew  a little  stronger,  a few  more  silver  rays 
slipped  down  upon  the  ruins.  I turned  toward  the 
east.  And  then  came  that  curious  crescendo  of  color 
and  of  light  which,  in  Egypt,  succeeds  the  diminuendo 
of  color  and  of  light  that  is  the  prelude  to  the  pause  be- 
fore the  afterglow.  Everything  seemed  to  be  in  subtle 
movement,  heaving  as  a breast  heaves  with  the  breath; 
swelling  slightly,  as  if  in  an  effort  to  be  more,  to  at- 
tract attention,  to  gain  in  significance.  Pale  things  be- 
came livid,  holding  apparently  some  under-brightness 
which  partly  penetrated  its  envelop,  but  a brightness 
that  was  white  and  almost  frightful.  Black  things 
seemed  to  glow  with  blackness.  The  air  quivered.  Its 
silence  surely  thrilled  with  sound — with  sound  that 
grew  ever  louder. 

In  the  east  I saw  an  effect.  To  the  west  I turned 
for  the  cause.  The  sunset  light  was  returning.  Horus 
would  not  permit  Turn  to  reign  even  for  a few  brief 
moments,  and  Khuns,  the  sacred  god  of  the  moon, 
would  be  witness  of  a conflict  in  that  lovely  western 
region  of  the  ocean  of  the  sky  where  the  bark  of  the 
sun  had  floated  away  beneath  the  mountain  rim  upon 
the  red-and-orange  tides.  The  afterglow  was  like  an 
exquisite  spasm,  is  always  like  an  exquisite  spasm,  a 
beautiful,  almost  desperate  effort  ending  in  the  quiet 

77 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

darkness  of  defeat.  And  through  that  spasmodic  effort 
a world  lived  for  some  minutes  with  a life  that  seemed 
unreal,  startling,  magical.  Color  returned  to  the  sky — 
color  ethereal,  trembling  as  if  it  knew  it  ought  not  to 
return.  Yet  it  stayed  for  a while  and  even  glowed, 
though  it  looked  always  strangely  purified,  and  full  of 
a crystal  coldness.  The  birds  that  flew  against  it  were 
no  longer  birds,  but  dark,  moving  ornaments,  devised 
surely  by  a supreme  artist  to  heighten  here  and  there 
the  beauty  of  the  sky.  Everything  that  moved  against 
the  afterglow — man,  woman,  child,  camel  and  donkey, 
dog  and  goat,  languishing  buffalo,  and  plunging  horse 
— became  at  once  an  ornament,  invented,  I fancied,  by 
a genius  to  emphasize,  by  relieving  it,  the  color  in 
which  the  sky  was  drowned.  And  Khuns  watched 
serenely,  as  if  he  knew  the  end.  And  almost  suddenly 
the  miraculous  effort  failed.  Things  again  revealed 
their  truth,  whether  commonplace  or  not.  That  pool 
of  the  Nile  was  no  more  a red  jewel  set  in  a feathery 
pattern  of  strange  design,  but  only  water  fading  from 
my  sight  beyond  a group  of  palms.  And  that  below 
me  was  only  a camel  going  homeward,  and  that  a child 
leading  a bronze-colored  sheep  with  a curly  coat,  and 
that  a dusty  flat-roofed  hovel,  not  the  fairy  home  of 
jinn,  or  the  abode  of  some  magician  working  marvels  with 
the  sun-rays  he  had  gathered  in  his  net.  The  air  was  no 
longer  thrilling  with  music.  The  breast  that  had  heaved 
with  a divine  breath  was  still  as  the  breast  of  a corpse. 

78 


KARNAK 

And  Khuns  reigned  quietly  over  the  plains  of 
Karnak. 

Karnak  has  no  distinctive  personality.  Built  under 
many  kings  its  ruins  are  as  complex  as  were  probably 
once  its  completed  temples,  with  their  shrines,  their 
towers,  their  courts,  their  hypostyle  halls.  As  I looked 
down  that  evening  in  the  moonlight  I saw,  softened  and 
made  more  touching  than  in  daytime,  those  alluring 
complexities,  brought  by  the  night  and  Khuns  into  a 
unity  that  was  both  tender  and  superb.  Masses  of 
masonry  lay  jumbled  in  shadow  and  in  silver;  gigantic 
walls  cast  sharply  defined  gloom ; obelisks  pointed  sig- 
nificantly to  the  sky,  seeming,  as  they  always  do,  to  be 
murmuring  a message;  huge  doorways  stood  up  like 
giants  unafraid  of  their  loneliness  and  yet  pathetic  in 
it;  here  was  a watching  statue,  there  one  that  seemed 
to  sleep,  seen  from  afar.  Yonder  Queen  Hatshepsu, 
who  wrought  wonders  at  Deir-el-Bahari,  and  who  is 
more  familiar  perhaps  as  Hatasu,  had  left  her  traces, 
and  nearer,  to  the  right,  Rameses  III  had  made  a 
temple,  surely  for  the  birds,  so  fond  they  are  of  it,  so 
pertinaciously  they  haunt  it.  Rameses  II,  mutilated 
and  immense,  stood  on  guard  before  the  terrific  hall  of 
Seti  I;  and  between  him  and  my  platform  in  the  air 
rose  the  solitary  lotus  column  that  prepares  you  for  the 
wonder  of  Seti’s  hall,  which  otherwise  might  almost 
overwhelm  you — unless  you  are  a Scotch  lady  in  a 
helmet.  And  Khuns  had  his  temple  here  by  the  Sphinx 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


of  the  twelfth  Rameses,  and  Ptah,  who  created  “the 
sun  egg  and  the  moon  egg,”  and  who  was  said — only 
said,  alas! — to  have  established  on  earth  the  “ever- 
lasting justice,”  had  his,  and  still  their  stones  receive 
the  silver  moon-rays  and  wake  the  wonder  of  men. 
Thothmes  III,  Thothmes  I,  Shishak,  who  smote  the 
kneeling  prisoners  and  vanquished  Jeroboam,  Medamut 
and  Mut,  Amenhotep  I,  and  Amenhotep  II — all  have 
left  their  records  or  been  celebrated  at  Karnak.  Pur- 
posely I mingled  them  in  my  mind — did  not  attempt  to 
put  them  in  their  proper  order,  or  even  to  disentangle 
gods  and  goddesses  from  conquerors  and  kings.  In  the 
warm  and  seductive  night  Khuns  whispered  to  me: 
“As  long  ago  at  Bekhten  I exorcized  the  demon  from 
the  suffering  Princess,  so  now  I exorcize  from  these 
ruins  all  spirits  but  my  own.  To-night  these  ruins  shall 
suggest  nothing  but  majesty,  tranquillity,  and  beauty. 
Their  records  are  for  Ra,  and  must  be  studied  by  his 
rays.  In  mine  they  shall  speak  not  to  the  intellect,  but 
only  to  the  emotions  and  the  soul.” 

And  presently  I went  down,  and  yielding  a complete 
and  happy  obedience  to  Khuns,  I wandered  alone 
through  the  stupendous  vestiges  of  past  eras,  dead 
ambitions,  vanished  glory,  and  long-outworn  belief, 
and  I ignored  eras,  ambitions,  glory,  and  belief,  and 
thought  only  of  form,  and  height,  of  the  miracle  of 
blackness  against  silver,  and  of  the  pathos  of  statues 
whose  ever-open  eyes  at  night,  when  one  is  near  them, 

80 


ENTRANCE  TO  TEMPLE  OF  RAMESES  111,  KARNAK 


KARNAK 


suggest  the  working  of  some  evil  spell,  perpetual 
watchfulness,  combined  with  eternal  inactivity,  the  un- 
slumbering mind  caged  in  the  body  that  is  paralyzed. 

There  is  a temple  at  Karnak  that  I love,  and  I scarcely 
know  why  I care  for  it  so  much.  It  is  on  the  right  of 
the  solitary  lotus  column  before  you  come  to  the  terrific 
hall  of  Seti.  Some  people  pass  it  by,  having  but  little 
time,  and  being  hypnotized,  it  seems,  by  the  more  as- 
tounding ruin  that  lies  beyond  it.  And  perhaps  it 
would  be  well,  on  a first  visit,  to  enter  it  last;  to  let  its 
influence  be  the  final  one  to  rest  upon  your  spirit.  This 
is  the  temple  of  Rameses  III,  a brown  place  of  calm 
and  retirement,  an  ineffable  place  of  peace.  Yes,  though 
the  birds  love  it  and  fill  it  often  with  their  voices,  it  is 
a sanctuary  of  peace.  Upon  the  floor  the  soft  sand 
lies,  placing  silence  beneath  your  footsteps.  The  pale 
brown  of  walls  and  columns,  almost  yellow  in  the  sun- 
shine, is  delicate  and  soothing,  and  inclines  the  heart 
to  calm.  Delicious,  suggestive  of  a beautiful  tapestry, 
rich  and  ornate,  yet  always  quiet,  are  the  brown  reliefs 
upon  the  stone.  What  are  they?  Does  it  matter? 
They  soften  the  walls,  make  them  more  personal,  more 
tender.  That  surely  is  their  mission.  This  temple 
holds  for  me  a spell.  As  soon  as  I enter  it,  I feel  the 
touch  of  the  lotus,  as  if  an  invisible  and  kindly  hand 
swept  a blossom  lightly  across  my  face  and  downward 
to  my  heart.  This  courtyard,  these  small  chambers 
beyond  it,  that  last  doorway  framing  a lovely  darkness, 

83 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


soothe  me  even  more  than  the  terra-cotta  hermitages 
of  the  Certosa  of  Pavia.  And  all  the  statues  here  are 
calm  with  an  irrevocable  calmness,  faithful  through 
passing  years  with  a very  sober  faithfulness  to  the  tem- 
ple they  adorn.  In  no  other  place,  one  feels  it,  could 
they  be  thus  at  peace,  with  hands  crossed  forever  upon 
their  breasts  which  are  torn  by  no  anxieties,  thrilled  by 
no  joys.  As  one  stands  among  them,  or,  sitting  on 
the  base  of  a column  in  the  chamber  that  lies  beyond 
them,  looks  on  them  from  a little  distance,  their  attitude 
is  like  a summons  to  men  to  contend  no  more,  to  be 
still,  to  enter  into  rest. 

Come  to  this  temple  when  you  leave  the  hall  of  Seti. 
There  you  are  in  a place  of  triumph.  Scarlet,  some 
say,  is  the  color  of  a great  note  sounded  on  a bugle. 
This  hall  is  like  a bugle-call  of  the  past,  thrilling  even 
now  down  all  the  ages  with  a triumph  that  is  surely 
greater  than  any  other  triumph.  It  suggests  blaze — 
blaze  of  scarlet,  blaze  of  bugle,  blaze  of  glory,  blaze 
of  life  and  time,  of  ambition  and  achievement.  In  these 
columns,  in  the  putting  up  of  them,  dead  men  sought 
to  climb  to  sun  and  stars,  limitless  in  desire,  limitless 
in  industry,  limitless  in  will.  And  at  the  tops  of  the 
columns  blooms  the  lotus,  the  symbol  of  rising.  What 
a triumph  in  stone  this  hall  was  once,  what  a triumph 
in  stone  its  ruin  is  to-day!  Perhaps,  among  temples, 
it  is  the  most  wondrous  thing  in  all  Egypt,  as  it  was 
no  doubt  the  most  wondrous  temple  in  the  world; 


THE  SACRED  LAKE.  KARNAK 


KARNAK 


among  temples,  I say,  for  the  Sphinx  is  of  all  the  marvels 
of  Egypt  by  far  the  most  marvelous.  The  grandeur 
of  this  hall  almost  moves  one  to  tears,  like  the  march- 
ing past  of  conquerors,  stirs  the  heart  with  leaping 
thrills  at  the  capacities  of  men.  Through  the  thicket 
of  columns,  tall  as  forest  trees,  the  intense  blue  of  the 
African  sky  stares  down,  and  their  great  shadows  lie 
along  the  warm  and  sunlit  ground.  Listen!  There 
are  voices  chanting.  Men  are  working  here — working 
as  men  worked  how  many  thousands  of  years  ago.  But 
these  are  calling  upon  the  Mohammedan’s  god  as  they 
slowly  drag  to  the  appointed  places  the  mighty  blocks  of 
stone.  And  it  is  to-day  a Frenchman  who  oversees  them. 

“Help  ! Help  ! Allah  give  us  help  ! 

Help  ! Help!  Allah  give  us  help  ! ” 

The  dust  flies  up  about  their  naked  feet.  Triumph 
and  work;  work  succeeded  by  the  triumph  all  can  see. 
I like  to  hear  the  workmen’s  voices  within  the  hall  of 
Seti.  I like  to  see  the  dust  stirred  by  their  tramping  feet. 

And  then  I like  to  go  once  more  to  the  little  temple, 
to  enter  through  its  defaced  gateway,  to  stand  alone  in 
its  silence  between  the  rows  of  statues  with  their  arms 
folded  upon  their  quiet  breasts,  to  gaze  into  the  tender 
darkness  beyond, — the  darkness  that  looks  consecrated, 
— to  feel  that  peace  is  more  wonderful  than  triumph, 
that  the  end  of  things  is  peace. 

Triumph  and  deathless  peace,  the  bugle-call  and 
silence — these  are  the  notes  of  Karnak. 

87 


VIII 


LUXOR 

UPON  the  wall  of  the  great  court  of  Amenhotep 
III  in  the  temple  of  Luxor  there  is  a delicious 
dancing  procession  in  honor  of  Rameses  II. 
It  is  very  funny  and  very  happy;  full  of  the  joy  of  life 
— a sort  of  radiant  cake-walk  of  old  Egyptian  days. 
How  supple  are  these  dancers!  They  seem  to  have 
no  bones.  One  after  another  they  come  in  line  upon 
the  mighty  wall,  and  each  one  bends  backward  to  the 
knees  of  the  one  who  follows.  As  I stood  and  looked 
at  them  for  the  first  time,  almost  I heard  the  twitter  of 
flutes,  the  rustic  wail  of  the  African  hautboy,  the  mo- 
notonous boom  of  the  derabukkeh,  cries  of  a far-off 
gaiety  such  as  one  often  hears  from  the  Nile  by  night. 
But  these  cries  came  down  the  long  avenues  of  the 
centuries;  this  gaiety  was  distant  in  the  vasty  halls 
of  the  long-dead  years.  Never  can  I think  of  Luxor 
without  thinking  of  those  happy  dancers,  without  think- 
ing of  the  life  that  goes  in  the  sun  on  dancing  feet. 

There  are  a few  places  in  the  world  that  one  asso- 
ciates with  happiness,  that  one  remembers  always  with 
a smile,  a little  thrill  at  the  heart  that  whispers,  “There 

88 


from  stereograph,  cop>rigJit.  1904,  by  Underwood  & Underwood.  New  York 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  LUXOR  FROM  THE  EASTERLY  PYLON 


LUXOR 


joy  is.”  Of  these  few  places  Luxor  is  one — Luxor  the 
home  of  sunshine,  the  suave  abode  of  light,  of  warmth, 
of  the  sweet  days  of  gold  and  sheeny,  golden  sunsets, 
of  silver,  shimmering  nights  through  which  the  songs 
of  the  boatmen  of  the  Nile  go  floating  to  the  courts 
and  the  tombs  of  Thebes.  The  roses  bloom  in  Luxor 
under  the  mighty  palms.  Always  surely  beneath  the 
palms  there  are  the  roses.  And  the  lateen-sails  come 
up  the  Nile,  looking  like  white-winged  promises  of 
future  golden  days.  And  at  dawn  one  wakes  with  hope 
and  hears  the  songs  of  the  dawn;  and  at  noon  one 
dreams  of  the  happiness  to  come;  and  at  sunset  one  is 
swept  away  on  the  gold  into  the  heart  of  the  golden 
world;  and  at  night  one  looks  at  the  stars,  and  each 
star  is  a twinkling  hope.  Soft  are  the  airs  of  Luxor; 
there  is  no  harshness  in  the  wind  that  stirs  the  leaves 
of  the  palms.  And  the  land  is  steeped  in  light.  From 
Luxor  one  goes  with  regret.  One  returns  to  it  with 
joy  on  dancing  feet. 

One  day  I sat  in  the  temple,  in  the  huge  court  with 
the  great  double  row  of  columns  that  stands  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile  and  looks  so  splendid  from  it.  The 
pale  brown  of  the  stone  became  almost  yellow  in  the 
sunshine.  From  the  river,  hidden  from  me,  stole  up 
the  songs  of  the  boatmen.  Nearer  at  hand  I heard 
pigeons  cooing,  cooing  in  the  sun,  as  if  almost  too  glad, 
and  seeking  to  manifest  their  gladness.  Behind  me, 
through  the  columns,  peeped  some  houses  of  the  vil- 

9 1 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

lage:  the  white  home  of  Ibrahim  Ayyad,  the  perfect 
dragoman,  grandson  of  Mustapha  Aga,  who  entertained 
me  years  ago,  and  whose  house  stood  actually  within 
the  precincts  of  the  temple;  houses  of  other  fortunate 
dwellers  in  Luxor  whose  names  I do  not  know.  For 
the  village  of  Luxor  crowds  boldly  about  the  temple, 
and  the  children  play  in  the  dust  almost  at  the  foot  of 
obelisks  and  statues.  High  on  a brown  hump  of  earth 
a buffalo  stood  alone,  languishing  serenely  in  the  sun, 
gazing  at  me  through  the  columns  with  light  eyes  that 
were  full  of  a sort  of  folly  of  contentment.  Some  goats 
tripped  by,  brown  against  the  brown  stone — the  dark 
brown  earth  of  the  native  houses.  Intimate  life  was 
here,  striking  the  note  of  the  coziness  of  Luxor.  Here 
was  none  of  the  sadness  and  the  majesty  of  Denderah. 
Grand  are  the  ruins  of  Luxor,  noble  is  the  line  of  col- 
umns that  boldly  fronts  the  Nile;  but  Time  has  given 
them  naked  to  the  air  and  to  the  sun,  to  children  and 
to  animals.  Instead  of  bats,  the  pigeons  fly  about 
them.  There  is  no  dreadful  darkness  in  their  sanctua- 
ries. Before  them  the  life  of  the  river,  behind  them  the 
life  of  the  village  flows  and  stirs.  Upon  them  looks 
down  the  Minaret  of  Abu  Haggag;  and  as  I sat  in  the 
sunshine,  the  warmth  of  which  began  to  lessen,  I saw 
upon  its  lofty  circular  balcony  the  figure  of  the  muezzin. 
He  leaned  over,  bending  toward  the  temple  and  the 
statues  of  Rameses  II  and  the  happy  dancers  on  the 
wall.  He  opened  his  lips  and  cried  to  them: 

92 


THE  COURT  OF  AMENHOTEP  111,  TEMPLE  OF  LUXOR 


1 


LUXOR 


“God  is  great.  God  is  great.  ...  I bear  witness 
that  there  is  no  god  but  God.  ...  I bear  witness  that 
Mohammed  is  the  Apostle  of  God.  . . . Come  to 
prayer!  Come  to  prayer!  . . . God  is  great.  God  is 
great.  There  is  no  god  but  God.” 

He  circled  round  the  minaret.  He  cried  to  the  Nile. 
He  cried  to  the  Colossi  sitting  in  their  plain,  and  to  the 
yellow  precipices  of  the  mountains  of  Libya.  He  cried 
to  Egypt: 

“Come  to  prayer!  Come  to  prayer!  There  is  no 
god  but  God.  There  is  no  god  but  God.” 

The  days  of  the  gods  were  dead,  and  their  ruined 
temple  echoed  with  the  proclamation  of  the  one  God 
of  the  Moslem  world.  “Come  to  prayer!  Come  to 
prayer!”  The  sun  began  to  sink. 

Sunset  and  evening  star,  and  one  clear  call  for  me. 

The  voice  of  the  muezzin  died  away.  There  was  a 
silence;  and  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  cry  from  the 
minaret,  I heard  the  chime  of  the  angelus  bell  from  the 
Catholic  church  of  Luxor. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell,  and  after  that  the  dark. 

I sat  very  still.  The  light  was  fading;  all  the  yellow 
was  fading,  too,  from  the  columns  and  the  temple  walls. 
I stayed  till  it  was  dark;  and  with  the  dark  the  old 
gods  seemed  to  resume  their  interrupted  sway.  And 
surely  they,  too,  called  to  prayer.  For  do  not  these 
ruins  of  old  Egypt,  like  the  muezzin  upon  the  minaret, 


95 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


like  the  angelus  bell  in  the  church  tower,  call  one  to 
prayer  in  the  night?  So  wonderful  are  they  under  stars 
and  moon  that  they  stir  the  fleshly  and  the  worldly  de- 
sires that  lie  like  drifted  leaves  about  the  reverence  and 
the  aspiration  that  are  the  hidden  core  of  the  heart. 
And  it  is  released  from  its  burden;  and  it  awakes  and 
prays. 

Amun-Ra,  Mut,  and  Khuns,  the  king  of  the  gods, 
his  wife,  mother  of  gods,  and  the  moon  god,  were  the 
Theban  triad  to  whom  the  holy  buildings  of  Thebes  on 
the  two  banks  of  the  Nile  were  dedicated;  and  this 
temple  of  Luxor,  the  “ House  of  Amun  in  the  Southern 
Apt,”  was  built  fifteen  hundred  years  before  Christ  by 
Amenhotep  III.  Rameses  II,  that  vehement  builder, 
added  to  it  immensely.  One  walks  among  his  traces 
when  one  walks  in  Luxor.  And  here,  as  at  Denderah, 
Christians  have  let  loose  the  fury  that  should  have  had 
no  place  in  their  religion.  Churches  for  their  worship 
they  made  in  different  parts  of  the  temple,  and  when 
they  were  not  praying,  they  broke  in  pieces  statues, 
defaced  bas-reliefs,  and  smashed  up  shrines  with  a 
vigor  quite  as  great  as  that  displayed  in  preservation  by 
Christians  of  to-day.  Now  time  has  called  a truce. 
Safe  are  the  statues  that  are  left.  And  day  by  day  two 
great  religions,  almost  as  if  in  happy  brotherly  love, 
send  forth  their  summons  by  the  temple  walls.  And 
just  beyond  those  walls,  upon  the  hill,  there  is  a Coptic 
church.  Peace  reigns  in  happy  Luxor.  The  lion  lies 

96 


t iuiu  sicrcogrrtpli,  copyright  l>y  Underwood  is:  Underwood,  New  \ork 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  LUXOR 


LUXOR 


down  with  the  lamb,  and  the  child,  if  it  will,  may 
harmlessly  put  its  hand  into  the  cockatrice’s  den. 

Perhaps  because  it  is  so  surrounded,  so  haunted  by 
life  and  familiar  things,  because  the  pigeons  fly  about 
it,  the  buffalo  stares  into  it,  the  goats  stir  up  the  dust 
beside  its  columns,  the  twittering  voices  of  women 
make  a music  near  its  courts,  many  people  pay  little 
heed  to  this  great  temple,  gain  but  a small  impression 
from  it.  It  decorates  the  bank  of  the  Nile.  You  can  see 
it  from  the  dahabiyehs.  For  many  that  is  enough. 
Yet  the  temple  is  a noble  one,  and,  for  me,  it  gains  a 
definite  attraction  all  its  own  from  the  busy  life  about 
it,  the  cheerful  hum  and  stir.  And  if  you  want  fully 
to  realize  its  dignity,  you  can  always  visit  it  by  night. 
Then  the  cries  from  the  village  are  hushed.  The 
houses  show  no  lights.  Only  the  voices  from  the  Nile 
steal  up  to  the  obelisk  of  Rameses,  to  the  pylon  from 
which  the  flags  of  Thebes  once  flew  on  festal  days,  to 
the  shrine  of  Alexander  the  Great,  with  its  vultures 
and  its  stars,  and  to  the  red  granite  statues  of  Rameses 
and  his  wives. 

These  last  are  as  expressive  and  of  course  more 
definite  than  my  dancers.  They  are  full  of  character. 
They  seem  to  breathe  out  the  essence  of  a vanished 
domesticity.  Colossal  are  the  statues  of  the  king,  solid, 
powerful,  and  tremendous,  boldly  facing  the  world 
with  the  calm  of  one  who  was  thought,  and  possibly 
thought  himself,  to  be  not  much  less  than  a deity.  And 


99 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


upon  each  pedestal,  shrinking  delicately  back,  was  once 
a little  wife.  Some  little  wives  are  left.  They  are  de- 
licious in  their  modesty.  Each  stands  away  from  the 
king,  shyly,  respectfully.  Each  is  so  small  as  to  be 
below  his  down-stretched  arm.  Each,  with  a surely 
furtive  gesture,  reaches  out  her  right  hand,  and  attains 
the  swelling  calf  of  her  noble  husband’s  leg.  Plump  are 
their  little  faces,  but  not  bad-looking.  One  cannot  pity 
the  king.  Nor  does  one  pity  them.  For  these  were 
not  “Les  desenchantees,”  the  restless,  sad-hearted 
women  of  an  Eastern  world  that  knows  too  much. 
Their  longings  surely  cannot  have  been  very  great. 
Their  world  was  probably  bounded  by  the  calf  of 
Rameses’s  leg.  That  was  “the  far  horizon”  of  the 
little  plump-faced  wives. 

The  happy  dancers  and  the  humble  wives,  they  al- 
ways come  before  me  with  the  temple  of  Luxor — joy 
and  discretion  side  by  side.  And  with  them,  to  my 
ears,  the  two  voices  seem  to  come,  muezzin  and  angelus 
bell,  mingling  not  in  war,  but  peace.  When  I think  of 
this  temple,  I think  of  its  joy  and  peace  far  less  than  of 
its  majesty. 

And  yet  it  is  majestic.  Look  at  it,  as  I have  often 
done,  toward  sunset  from  the  western  bank  of  the  Nile, 
or  climb  the  mound  beyond  its  northern  end,  where 
stands  the  grand  entrance,  and  you  realize  at  once  its 
nobility  and  solemn  splendor.  From  the  Loulia' s deck 
it  was  a procession  of  great  columns ; that  was  all. 


T OO 


OBELISK  AND  PYLON,  LUXOR 


LUXOR 


But  the  decorative  effect  of  these  columns,  soaring 
above  the  river  and  its  vivid  life,  is  fine. 

By  day  all  is  turmoil  on  the  river-bank.  Barges  are 
unloading,  steamers  are  arriving,  and  throngs  of  donkey- 
boys  and  dragomans  go  down  in  haste  to  meet  them. 
Servants  run  to  and  fro  on  errands  from  the  many 
dahabiyehs.  Bathers  leap  into  the  brown  waters.  The 
native  craft  pass  by  with  their  enormous  sails  out- 
spread to  catch  the  wind,  bearing  serried  mobs  of  men, 
and  black-robed  women,  and  laughing,  singing  children. 
The  boatmen  of  the  hotels  sing  monotonously  as  they 
lounge  in  the  big,  white  boats  waiting  for  travelers  to 
Medinet-Abu,  to  the  Ramesseum,  to  Kurna,  and  the 
tombs.  And  just  above  them  rise  the  long  lines  of  col- 
umns, ancient,  tranquil,  and  remote — infinitely  remote, 
for  all  their  nearness,  casting  down  upon  the  sunlit 
gaiety  the  long  shadow  of  the  past. 

From  the  edge  of  the  mound  where  stands  the  native 
village  the  effect  of  the  temple  is  much  less  decora- 
tive, but  its  detailed  grandeur  can  be  better  grasped 
from  there;  for  from  there  one  sees  the  great  towers 
of  the  propylon,  two  rows  of  mighty  columns,  the  red 
granite  Obelisk  of  Rameses  the  Great,  and  the  black 
granite  statues  of  the  king.  On  the  right  of  the  en- 
trance a giant  stands,  on  the  left  one  is  seated,  and  a 
little  farther  away  a third  emerges  from  the  ground, 
which  reaches  to  its  mighty  breast. 

And  there  the  children  play  perpetually.  And  there 

103 


8 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


the  Egyptians  sing  their  serenades,  making  the  pipes 
wail  and  striking  the  derabukkeh  ; and  there  the  women 
gossip  and  twitter  like  the  birds.  And  the  buffalo  comes 
to  take  his  sun-bath ; and  the  goats  and  the  curly, 
brown  sheep  pass  in  sprightly  and  calm  processions. 
The  obelisk  there,  like  its  brother  in  Paris,  presides 
over  a cheerfulness  of  life;  but  it  is  a life  that  seems 
akin  to  it,  not  alien  from  it.  And  the  king  watches  the 
simplicity  of  this  keen  existence  of  Egypt  of  to-day 
far  up  the  Nile  with  a calm  that  one  does  not  fear  may 
be  broken  by  unsympathetic  outrage,  or  by  any  vision 
of  too  perpetual  foreign  life.  For  the  tourists  each 
year  are  but  an  episode  in  Upper  Egypt.  Still  the 
shadoof-man  sings  his  ancient  song,  violent  and  pa- 
thetic, bold  as  the  burning  sun-rays.  Still  the  fellaheen 
plow  with  the  camel  yoked  with  the  ox.  Still  the 
women  are  covered  with  protective  amulets  and  hold 
their  black  draperies  in  their  mouths.  The  intimate  life 
of  the  Nile  remains  the  same.  And  that  life  obelisk 
and  king  have  known  for  how  many,  many  years! 

And  so  I love  to  think  of  this  intimacy  of  life  about 
the  temple  of  the  happy  dancers  and  the  humble  little 
wives,  and  it  seems  to  me  to  strike  the  keynote  of  the 
golden  coziness  of  Luxor. 


1 04 


THE  GREAT  COLONNADE,  TEMPLE  OF  LUXOR 


■ 


IX 


COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON 

NEVERTHELESS,  sometimes  one  likes  to 
escape  from  the  thing  one  loves,  and  there  are 
hours  when  the  gay  voices  of  Luxor  fatigue 
the  ears,  when  one  desires  a great  calm.  Then  there 
are  silent  voices  that  summon  one  across  the  river,  when 
the  dawn  is  breaking  over  the  hills  of  the  Arabian  desert, 
or  when  the  sun  is  declining  toward  the  Libyan  moun- 
tains— voices  issuing  from  lips  of  stone,  from  the 
twilight  of  sanctuaries,  from  the  depths  of  rock-hewn 
tombs. 

The  peace  of  the  plain  of  Thebes  in  the  early  morn- 
ing is  very  rare  and  very  exquisite.  It  is  not  the  peace 
of  the  desert,  but  rather,  perhaps,  the  peace  of  the 
prairie — an  atmosphere  tender,  delicately  thrilling, 
softly  bright,  hopeful  in  its  gleaming  calm.  Often  and 
often  have  I left  the  Loulia  very  early,  moored  against 
the  long  sand  islet  that  faces  Luxor  when  the  Nile  has 
not  subsided,  I have  rowed  across  the  quiet  water  that 
divided  me  from  the  western  bank,  and,  with  a happy 
heart,  I have  entered  into  the  lovely  peace  of  the  great 
spaces  that  stretch  from  the  Colossi  of  Memnon  to  the 

107 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


Nile,  to  the  mountains,  southward  toward  Armant, 
northward  to  Kerekten,  to  Danfik,  to  Gueziret-Meteira. 
Think  of  the  color  of  young  clover,  of  young  barley, 
of  young  wheat ; think  of  the  timbre  of  the  reed  flute’s 
voice,  thin,  clear,  and  frail  with  the  frailty  of  dewdrops; 
think  of  the  torrents  of  spring  rushing  through  the 
veins  of  a great,  wide  land,  and  growing  almost  still 
at  last  on  their  journey.  Spring,  you  will  say,  perhaps, 
and  high  Nile  not  yet  subsided  ! But  Egypt  is  the 
favored  land  of  a spring  that  is  already  alert  at  the  end 
of  November,  and  in  December  is  pushing  forth  its 
green.  The  Nile  has  sunk  away  from  the  feet  of  the 
Colossi  that  it  has  bathed  through  many  days.  It  has 
freed  the  plain  to  the  fellaheen,  though  still  it  keeps  my 
island  in  its  clasp.  And  Hapi,  or  Kam-wra,  the  “ Great 
Extender,”  and  Ra,  have  made  this  wonderful  spring 
to  bloom  on  the  dark  earth  before  the  Christian’s 
Christmas. 

What  a pastoral  it  is,  this  plain  of  Thebes,  in  the 
dawn  of  day ! Think  of  the  reed  flute,  I have  said, 
not  because  you  will  hear  it,  as  you  ride  toward  the 
mountains,  but  because  its  voice  would  be  utterly  in 
place  here,  in  this  arcady  of  Egypt,  playing  no  taran- 
tella, but  one  of  those  songs,  half  bird-like,  and  half 
sadly,  mysteriously  human,  which  come  from  the  soul 
of  the  East.  Instead  of  it,  you  may  catch  distant  cries 
from  the  bank  of  the  river,  where  the  shadoof-man 
toils,  lifting  ever  the  water  and  his  voice,  the  one  to 

108 


NEAR  VIEW  OF  THE  COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON 


COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON 


earth,  the  other,  it  seems,  to  sky;  and  the  creaking  lay 
of  the  water-wheel,  which  pervades  Upper  Egypt  like 
an  atmosphere,  and  which,  though  perhaps  at  first  it 
irritates,  at  last  seems  to  you  the  sound  of  the  soul  of 
the  river,  of  the  sunshine,  and  the  soil. 

Much  of  the  land  looks  painted.  So  flat  is  it,  so 
young  are  the  growing  crops,  that  they  are  like  a coat- 
ing of  green  paint  spread  over  a mighty  canvas.  But 
the  doura  rises  higher  than  the  heads  of  the  naked 
children  who  stand  among  it  to  watch  you  canter  past. 
And  in  the  far  distance  you  see  dim  groups  of  trees — 
sycamores  and  acacias,  tamarisks  and  palms.  Beyond 
them  is  the  very  heart  of  this  “ land  of  sand  and  ruins 
and  gold”:  Medinet-Abu,  the  Ramesseum,  Deir-el- 
Medinet,  Kurna,  Deir-el-Bahari,  the  tombs  of  the  kings, 
the  tombs  of  the  queens  and  of  the  princes.  In  the 
strip  of  bare  land  at  the  foot  of  those  hard,  and  yet  po- 
etic, mountains,  have  been  dug  up  treasures  the  fame  of 
which  has  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  But  this 
plain,  where  the  fellaheen  are  stooping  to  the  soil,  and 
the  women  are  carrying  the  water-jars,  and  the  children 
are  playing  in  the  doura,  and  the  oxen  and  the  camels 
are  working  with  plows  that  look  like  relics  of  far-off 
days,  is  the  possession  of  the  two  great  presiding  be- 
ings whom  you  see  from  an  enormous  distance,  the  Co- 
lossi of  Memnon.  Amenhotep  III  put  them  where  they 
are.  So  we  are  told.  But  in  this  early  morning  it  is 
not  possible  to  think  of  them  as  being  brought  to  any 


i i i 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


place.  Seated,  the  one  beside  the  other,  facing  the 
Nile  and  the  home  of  the  rising  sun,  their  immense  as- 
pect of  patience  suggests  will,  calmly,  steadily  exercised, 
suggests  choice;  that,  for  some  reason,  as  yet  unknown, 
they  chose  to  come  to  this  plain,  that  they  choose  sol- 
emnly to  remain  there,  waiting,  while  the  harvests  grow 
and  are  gathered  about  their  feet,  while  the  Nile  rises 
and  subsides,  while  the  years  and  the  generations  come, 
like  the  harvests,  and  are  stored  away  in  the  granaries 
of  the  past.  Their  calm  broods  over  this  plain,  gives 
to  it  a personal  atmosphere  which  sets  it  quite  apart 
from  every  other  flat  space  of  the  world.  There  is  no 
place  that  I know  on  the  earth  which  has  the  peculiar, 
bright,  ineffable  calm  of  the  plain  of  these  Colossi.  It 
takes  you  into  its  breast,  and  you  lie  there  in  the  grow- 
ing sunshine  almost  as  if  you  were  a child  laid  in  the  lap 
of  one  of  them.  That  legend  of  the  singing  at  dawn  of 
the  “ vocal  Memnon,”  how  could  it  have  arisen?  How 
could  such  calmness  sing,  such  patience  ever  find  a 
voice?  Unlike  the  Sphinx,  which  becomes  ever  more 
impressive  as  you  draw  near  to  it,  and  is  most  impres- 
sive when  you  sit  almost  at  its  feet,  the  Colossi  lose  in 
personality  as  you  approach  them  and  can  see  how  they 
have  been  defaced. 

From  afar  one  feels  their  minds,  their  strange,  un- 
earthly temperaments  commanding  this  pastoral.  When 
you  are  beside  them,  this  feeling  disappears.  Their 
features  are  gone,  and  though  in  their  attitudes  there  is 


I I 2 


the  colossi  of  memnon 


COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON 


power,  and  there  is  something  that  wakens  awe,  they 
are  more  wonderful  as  a far-off  feature  of  the  plain. 
They  gain  in  grandeur  from  the  night,  in  strangeness 
from  the  moonrise,  perhaps  specially  when  the  Nile 
comes  to  their  feet.  More  than  three  thousand  years 
old,  they  look  less  eternal  than  the  Sphinx.  Like 
them,  the  Sphinx  is  waiting,  but  with  a greater  purpose. 
The  Sphinx  reduces  man  really  to  nothingness.  The 
Colossi  leave  him  some  remnants  of  individuality.  One 
can  conceive  of  Strabo  and  yElius  Gallus,  of  Hadrian 
and  Sabina,  of  others  who  came  over  the  sunlit  land  to 
hear  the  unearthly  song  in  the  dawn,  being  of  some — 
not  much,  but  still  of  some — importance  here.  Before 
the  Sphinx  no  one  is  important.  But  in  the  distance  of 
the  plain  the  Colossi  shed  a real  magic  of  calm  and 
solemn  personality,  and  subtly  seem  to  mingle  their 
spirit  with  the  flat,  green  world,  so  wide,  so  still,  so 
fecund,  and  so  peaceful;  with  the  soft  airs  that  are  surely 
scented  with  an  eternal  springtime,  and  with  the  light 
that  the  morning  rains  down  on  wheat  and  clover,  on 
Indian  corn  and  barley,  and  on  brown  men  laboring, 
who,  perhaps,  from  the  patience  of  the  Colossi  in  repose 
have  drawn  a patience  in  labor  that  has  in  it  some- 
thing not  less  sublime. 

From  the  Colossi  one  goes  onward  toward  the  trees 
and  the  mountains,  and  very  soon  one  comes  to  the 
edge  of  that  strange  and  fascinating  strip  of  barren  land 
which  is  strewn  with  temples  and  honeycombed  with 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

tombs.  The  sun  burns  down  on  it.  The  heat  seems 
thrown  back  upon  it  by  the  wall  of  tawny  mountains 
that  bounds  it  on  the  west.  It  is  dusty,  it  is  arid;  it 
is  haunted  by  swarms  of  flies,  by  the  guardians  of  the 
ruins,  and  by  men  and  boys  trying  to  sell  enormous 
scarabs  and  necklaces  and  amulets,  made  yesterday,  and 
the  day  before,  in  the  manufactory  of  Kurna.  From 
many  points  it  looks  not  unlike  a strangely  prolonged 
rubbish-heap  in  which  busy  giants  have  been  digging 
with  huge  spades,  making  mounds  and  pits,  caverns 
and  trenches,  piling  up  here  a monstrous  heap  of  stones, 
casting  down  there  a mighty  statue.  But  how  it  fasci- 
nates! Of  course  one  knows  what  it  means.  One 
knows  that  on  this  strip  of  land  Naville  dug  out  at 
Deir-el-Bahari  the  temple  of  Mentu-hotep,  and  dis- 
covered later,  in  her  shrine,  Hathor,  the  cow-goddess, 
with  the  lotus-plants  streaming  from  her  sacred  fore- 
head to  her  feet;  that  long  before  him  Mariette  here 
brought  to  the  light  at  Drah-abu’l-Neggah  the  trea- 
sures of  kings  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  dynasties; 
that  at  the  foot  of  those  tiger-colored  precipices,  Theo- 
dore M.  Davis,  the  American,  found  the  sepulcher  of 
Queen  Hatshepsu,  the  Queen  Elizabeth  of  the  old 
Egyptian  world,  and,  later,  the  tomb  of  Yuaa  and 
Thuaa,  the  parents  of  Queen  Thiy,  containing  mummy- 
cases  covered  with  gold,  jars  of  oil  and  wine,  gold,  silver, 
and  alabaster  boxes,  a bed  decorated  with  gilded  ivory, 
a chair  with  gilded  plaster  reliefs,  chairs  of  state,  and 

i i 6 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS 


COLOSSI  OF  MEMNON 


a chariot;  that  here  Maspero,  Victor  Loret,  Brugsch 
Bey,  and  other  patient  workers  gave  to  the  world 
tombs  that  had  been  hidden  and  unknown  for  cen- 
turies; that  there  to  the  north  is  the  temple  of  Kurna, 
and  over  there  the  Ramesseum;  that  those  rows  of  little 
pillars  close  under  the  mountain,  and  looking  strangely 
modern,  are  the  pillars  of  Hatshepsu’s  temple,  which 
bears  upon  its  walls  the  pictures  of  the  expedition  to 
the  historic  land  of  Punt;  that  the  kings  were  buried 
there,  and  there  the  queens  and  the  princes  of  the  van- 
ished dynasties;  that  beyond  to  the  west  is  the  temple 
of  Deir-el-Medinet  with  its  judgment  of  the  dead;  that 
here  by  the  native  village  is  Medinet-Abu.  One  knows 
that,  and  so  the  imagination  is  awake,  ready  to  paint 
the  lily  and  to  gild  the  beaten  gold.  But  even  if  one 
did  not  know,  I think  one  would  be  fascinated.  This 
turmoil  of  sunbaked  earth  and  rock,  gray,  yellow,  pink, 
orange,  and  red,  awakens  the  curiosity,  summons  the 
love  of  the  strange,  suggests  that  it  holds  secrets  to 
charm  the  souls  of  men. 


9 


II9 


X 


MEDINET-ABU 


T the  entrance  to  the  temple  of  Medinet-Abu, 


back  across  the  plain  before  entering  through  the 
first  beautiful  doorway,  to  see  the  patient  backs  and 
right  sides  of  the  colossi,  the  far-off,  dreamy 
mountains  beyond  Karnak  and  the  Nile.  And 
again,  when  I have  entered  and  walked  a little 
distance,  I have  looked  back  at  the  almost  magical 
picture  framed  in  the  doorway;  at  the  bottom  of  the 
picture  a layer  of  brown  earth,  then  a strip  of  sharp 
green, — the  cultivated  ground, — then  a blur  of  pale  yel- 
low, then  a darkness  of  trees,  and  just  the  hint  of  a hill 
far,  very  far  away.  And  always,  in  looking,  I have 
thought  of  the  “Sposalizio”  of  Raphael  in  the  Brera  at 
Milan,  of  the  tiny  dream  of  blue  country  framed  by  his 
temple  doorway  beyond  the  Virgin  and  Saint  Joseph. 
The  doorways  of  the  temples  of  Egypt  are  very  noble, 
and  nowhere  have  I been  more  struck  by  their  nobility 
than  in  Medinet-Abu.  Set  in  huge  walls  of  massive 
masonry,  which  rise  slightly  above  them  on  each  side, 


A 


near  the  small  groups  of  palms  and  the  few 
brown  houses,  often  have  I turned  and  looked 


120 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  MEDINET-ABU 


: : 


MEDINET-ABU 


with  a projecting  cornice,  in  their  simplicity  they  look 
extraordinarily  classical,  in  their  sobriety  mysterious, 
and  in  their  great  solidity  quite  wonderfully  elegant. 
And  they  always  suggest  to  me  that  they  are  giving 
access  to  courts  and  chambers  which  still,  even  in  our 
times,  are  dedicated  to  secret  cults  — to  the  cults  of 
Isis,  of  Hathor,  and  of  Osiris. 

Close  to  the  right  of  the  front  of  Medinet-Abu  there 
are  trees  covered  with  yellow  flowers;  beyond  are  fields 
of  doura.  Behind  the  temple  is  a sterility  which  makes 
one  think  of  metal.  A great  calm  enfolds  this  place. 
The  buildings  are  of  the  same  color  as  the  colossi. 
When  I speak  of  the  buildings,  I include  the  great 
temple,  the  pavilion  of  Rameses  III,  and  the  little 
temple,  which  together  may  be  said  to  form  Medinet- 
Abu.  Whereas  the  temple  of  Luxor  seems  to  open  its 
arms  to  life,  and  the  great  fascination  of  the  Rames- 
seum  comes  partly  from  its  invasion  by  every  travel- 
ing air  and  happy  sun-ray,  its  openness  and  freedom, 
Medinet-Abu  impresses  by  its  colossal  air  of  secrecy, 
by  its  fortress-like  seclusion.  Its  walls  are  immensely 
thick,  and  are  covered  with  figures  the  same  color  as 
the  walls,  some  of  them  very  tall.  Thick  set,  massive, 
heavy,  almost  warlike  it  is.  Two  seated  statues 
within,  statues  with  animals’  faces,  steel-colored,  or 
perhaps  a little  darker  than  that,  look  like  savage  war- 
ders ready  to  repel  intrusion. 

Passing  between  them,  delicately  as  Agag,  one  enters 


123 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


an  open  space  with  ruins,  upon  the  right  of  which  is  a 
low,  small  temple,  gray  in  hue,  and  covered  with  in- 
scriptions, which  looks  almost  bowed  under  its  tremen- 
dous weight  of  years.  From  this  dignified,  though  tiny, 
veteran  there  comes  a perpetual  sound  of  birds.  The 
birds  in  Egypt  have  no  reverence  for  age.  Never  have 
I seen  them  more  restless,  more  gay,  or  more  imperti- 
nent, than  in  the  immemorial  ruins  of  this  ancient  land. 
Beyond  is  an  enormous  portal,  on  the  lofty  ceiling  of 
which  still  linger  traces  of  faded  red  and  blue,  which 
gives  access  to  a great  hall  with  rows  of  mighty  col- 
umns, those  on  the  left  hand  round,  those  on  the  right 
square,  and  almost  terribly  massive.  There  is  in  these 
no  grace,  as  in  the  giant  lotus  columns  of  Karnak. 
Prodigious,  heavy,  barbaric,  they  are  like  a hymn  in 
stone  to  strength.  There  is  something  brutal  in  their 
aspect,  which  again  makes  one  think  of  war,  of  assaults 
repelled,  hordes  beaten  back  like  waves  by  a sea-wall. 
And  still  another  great  hall,  with  more  gigantic  col- 
umns, lies  in  the  sun  beyond,  and  a doorway  through 
which  seems  to  stare  fiercely  the  edge  of  a hard  and 
fiery  mountain.  Although  one  is  roofed  by  the  sky, 
there  is  something  oppressive  here;  an  imprisoned  feel- 
ing comes  over  one.  I could  never  be  fond  of  Medinet- 
Abu,  as  I am  fond  of  Luxor,  of  parts  of  Karnak,  of 
the  whole  of  delicious,  poetical  Philae.  The  big  pylons, 
with  their  great  walls  sloping  inward,  sand-colored, 
and  glowing  with  very  pale  yellow  in  the  sun,  the  re- 


CORNER  OF  SECOND  COURT,  TEMPER  OF  RAMESES  III, 

MEDINET-ABU 


MEDINET-ABU 


sistant  walls,  the  brutal  columns,  the  huge  and  almost 
savage  scale  of  everything,  always  remind  me  of  the 
violence  in  men,  and  also — I scarcely  know  why — 
make  me  think  of  the  North,  of  sullen  Northern  castles 
by  the  sea,  in  places  where  skies  are  gray,  and  the 
white  of  foam  and  snow  is  married  in  angry  nights. 

And  yet  in  Medinet-Abu  there  reigns  a splendid 
calm — a calm  that  sometimes  seems  massive,  resistant, 
as  the  columns  and  the  walls.  Peace  is  certainly  in- 
closed by  the  stones  that  call  up  thoughts  of  war,  as 
if,  perhaps,  their  purpose  had  been  achieved  many 
centuries  ago,  and  they  were  quit  of  enemies  forever. 
Rameses  III  is  connected  with  Medinet-Abu.  He  was 
one  of  the  greatest  of  the  Egyptian  kings,  and  has 
been  called  the  “ last  of  the  great  sovereigns  of  Egypt.” 
He  ruled  for  thirty-one  years,  and  when,  after  a first 
visit  to  Medinet-Abu,  I looked  into  his  records,  I was 
interested  to  find  that  his  conquests  and  his  wars  had  “ a 
character  essentially  defensive.”  This  defensive  spirit 
is  incarnated  in  the  stones  of  these  ruins.  One  reads 
in  them  something  of  the  soul  of  this  king  who  lived 
twelve  hundred  years  before  Christ,  and  who  desired 
“ in  remembrance  of  his  Syrian  victories  ” to  give  to 
his  memorial  temple  an  outward  military  aspect.  I 
noticed  a military  aspect  at  once  inside  this  temple ; 
but  if  you  circle  the  buildings  outside  it  is  more  un- 
mistakable. For  the  east  front  has  a battlemented 
wall,  and  the  battlements  are  shield-shaped.  This 

1 27 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

fortress,  or  migdol,  a name  which  the  ancient  Egyptians 
borrowed  from  the  nomadic  tribes  of  Syria,  is  called 
the  “Pavilion  of  Rameses  III,”  and  his  principal  bat- 
tles are  represented  upon  its  walls.  The  monarch  does 
not  hesitate  to  speak  of  himself  in  terms  of  praise, 
suggesting  that  he  was  like  the  God  Mentu,  who  was 
the  Egyptian  war  god,  and  whose  cult  at  Thebes  was 
at  one  period  more  important  even  than  was  the  cult  of 
Amun,  and  also  plainly  hinting  that  he  was  a brave 
fellow.  “ I,  Rameses  the  King,”  he  murmurs,  “ be- 
haved as  a hero  who  knows  his  worth.”  If  hieroglyphs 
are  to  be  trusted,  various  Egyptian  kings  of  ancient 
times  seem  to  have  had  some  vague  suspicion  of  their 
own  value,  and  the  walls  of  Medinet-Abu  are,  to  speak 
sincerely,  one  mighty  boast.  In  his  later  years  the 
king  lived  in  peace  and  luxury,  surrounded  by  a vicious 
and  intriguing  court  haunted  by  magicians,  hags,  and 
mystery-mongers.  Dealers  in  magic  may  still  be  found 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  in  happy  Luxor.  I made 
the  acquaintance  of  two  when  I was  there,  one  of  whom 
offered  for  a couple  of  pounds  to  provide  me  with  a 
preservative  against  all  such  dangers  as  beset  the  trav- 
eler in  wild  places.  In  order  to  prove  its  efficacy  he 
asked  me  to  come  to  his  house  by  night,  bringing  a 
dog  and  my  revolver  with  me.  He  would  hang  the 
charm  about  the  dog’s  neck,  and  I was  then  to  put  six 
shots  into  the  animal’s  body.  He  positively  assured 
me  that  the  dog  would  be  uninjured.  I half-promised 

128 


THE  RAMESSEUM 


MEDINET-ABU 


to  come,  and,  when  night  began  to  fall,  looked  vaguely 
about  for  a dog.  At  last  I found  one,  but  it  howled  so 
dismally,  when  I asked  Ibrahim  Ayyad  to  take  pos- 
session of  it  for  experimental  purposes,  that  I weakly 
gave  up  the  project,  and  left  the  magician  clamoring 
for  his  hundred  and  ninety-five  piasters. 

Its  warlike  aspect  gives  a special  personality  to 
Medinet-Abu.‘  The  shield-shaped  battlements;  the 
court-yards,  with  their  brutal  columns,  narrowing  as 
they  recede  toward  the  mountains;  the  heavy  gateways, 
with  superimposed  chambers;  the  towers;  quadrangu- 
lar bastion  to  protect,  inclined  basement  to  resist  the 
attacks  of  sappers  and  cause  projectiles  to  rebound — all 
these  things  contribute  to  this  very  definite  effect. 

I have  heard  travelers  on  the  Nile  speak  piteously 
of  the  confusion  wakened  in  their  minds  by  a hurried 
survey  of  many  temples,  statues,  monuments,  and 
tombs.  But  if  one  stays  long  enough  this  confusion 
fades  happily  away,  and  one  differentiates  between  the 
antique  personalities  of  ancient  Egypt  almost  as  easily 
as  one  differentiates  between  the  personalities  of  one’s 
familiar  friends.  Among  these  personalities  Medinet- 
Abu  is  the  warrior,  standing  like  Mentu,  with  the  solar 
disk,  and  the  two  plumes  erect  above  his  head  of  a 
hawk,  firmly  planted  at  the  foot  of  the  Theban  moun- 
tains, ready  to  repel  all  enemies,  to  beat  back  all  as- 
saults, strong  and  determined,  powerful  and  brutally 


serene. 


XI 


T 


THE  RAMESSEUM 

iHIS,  my  lord,  is  the  thinking  place  of  Rameses 
the  Great.” 

So  said  Ibrahim  Ayyad  to  me  one  morning 
— Ibrahim  who  is  almost  as  prolific  in  the  abrupt  crea- 
tion of  peers  as  if  he  were  a democratic  government. 

I looked  about  me.  We  stood  in  a ruined  hall  with 
columns,  architraves  covered  with  inscriptions,  seg- 
ments of  flat  roof.  Here  and  there  traces  of  painting, 
dull-red,  pale,  ethereal  blue, — the  “love-color”  of 
Egypt,  as  the  Egyptians  often  call  it, — still  adhered  to 
the  stone.  This  hall,  dignified,  grand,  but  happy,  was 
open  on  all  sides  to  the  sun  and  air.  From  it  I could 
see  tamarisk  and  acacia-trees,  and  far-off  shadowy 
mountains  beyond  the  eastern  verge  of  the  Nile.  And 
the  trees  were  still  as  carven  things  in  an  atmosphere 
that  was  a miracle  of  clearness  and  of  purity.  Behind 
me,  and  near,  the  hard  Libyan  mountains  gleamed  in 
the  sun.  Somewhere  a boy  was  singing ; and  sud- 
denly his  singing  died  away.  And  I thought  of  the 
“Lay  of  the  Harper”  which  is  inscribed  upon  the 


1 3 2 


“THE  THINKING  PLACE  OF  RAMESES  THE  GREAT,” 
HALL  OF  LOTUS  COLUMNS,  RAMESSEUM 


THE  RAMESSEUM 

tombs  of  Thebes — those  tombs  under  those  gleaming 
mountains : 

For  no  one  carries  away  his  goods  with  him ; 

Yea,  no  one  returns  again  who  has  gone  thither. 

It  took  the  place  of  the  song  that  had  died  as  I 
thought  of  the  great  king’s  glory ; that  he  had  been  here, 
and  had  long  since  passed  away. 

“ The  thinking  place  of  Rameses  the  Great ! ” 

“ Suttinly.” 

“You  must  leave  me  alone  here,  Ibrahim.” 

I watched  his  gold-colored  robe  vanish  into  the  gold 
of  the  sun  through  the  copper  color  of  the  columns. 
And  I was  quite  alone  in  the  “thinking  place”  of 
Rameses.  It  was  a brilliant  day,  the  sky  dark  sapphire 
blue,  without  even  the  specter  of  a cloud,  or  any  airy, 
vaporous  veil;  the  heat  already  intense  in  the  full  sun- 
shine, but  delicious,  if  one  slid  into  a shadow.  I slid 
into  a shadow,  and  sat  down  on  a warm  block  of  stone. 
And  the  silence  flowed  upon  me — the  silence  of  the 
Ramesseum. 

Was  Horbehutet,  the  winged  disk,  with  crowned 
uvctei , ever  set  up  above  this  temple’s  principal  door  to 
keep  it  from  destruction  ? I do  not  know.  But,  if  he 
was,  he  failed  perfectly  to  fulfil  his  mission.  And  I am 
glad  he  failed.  I am  glad  of  the  ruin  that  is  here,  glad 
that  walls  have  crumbled  or  been  overthrown,  that 
columns  have  been  cast  down,  and  ceilings  torn  off 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


from  the  pillars  that  supported  them,  letting  in  the  sky. 
I would  have  nothing  different  in  the  thinking  place  of 
Rameses. 

Like  a cloud,  a great  golden  cloud,  a glory  impend- 
ing that  will  not,  cannot,  be  dissolved  into  the  ether,  he 
loomed  over  the  Egypt  that  is  dead,  he  looms  over  the 
Egypt  of  to-day.  Everywhere  you  meet  his  traces, 
everywhere  you  hear  his  name.  You  say  to  a tall 
young  Egyptian  : “ How  big  you  are  growing,  Has- 

l ’ > 

san  ! 

He  answers,  “ Come  back  next  year,  my  gentleman, 
and  I shall  be  like  Rameses  the  Great.” 

Or  you  ask  of  the  boatman  who  rows  you,  “ How 
can  you  pull  all  day  against  the  current  of  the  Nile?” 
And  he  smiles,  and  lifting  his  brown  arm,  he  says  to 
you  : “ Look!  I am  as  strong  as  Rameses  the  Great.” 

This  familiar  fame  comes  down  through  some  three 
thousand,  two  hundred,  and  twenty  years.  Carved 
upon  limestone  and  granite,  now  it  seems  engraven  also 
on  every  Egyptian  heart  that  beats  not  only  with  the 
movement  of  shadoof,  or  is  not  buried  in  the  black  soil 
fertilized  by  Hapi.  Thus  can  inordinate  vanity  pro- 
long the  true  triumph  of  genius,  and  impress  its  own 
view  of  itself  upon  the  minds  of  millions.  This  Ram- 
eses is  believed  to  be  the  IJharaoh  who  oppressed  the 
children  of  Israel. 

As  I sat  in  the  Ramesseum  that  morning,  I recalled 
his  face — the  face  of  an  artist  and  a dreamer  rather 

136 


THE  PLAIN  OF  THEBES  FROM  THE  ROOF  OF  THE 
RAMESSEUM 


THE  RAMESSEUM 


than  that  of  a warrior  and  oppressor ; Asiatic,  hand- 
some, not  insensitive,  not  cruel,  but  subtle,  aristocratic, 
and  refined.  I could  imagine  it  bending  above  the 
little  serpents  of  the  sistrum  as  they  lifted  their  melodi- 
ous voices  to  bid  Typhon  depart,  or  watching  the 
dancing  women’s  rhythmic  movements,  or  smiling  half 
kindly,  half  with  irony,  upon  the  lovelorn  maiden  who 
made  her  plaint : 

“ What  is  sweet  to  the  mouth,  to  me  is  as  the  gall  of  birds ; 

Thy  breath  alone  can  comfort  my  heart.” 

And  I could  imagine  it  looking  profoundly  grave, 
not  sad,  among  the  columns  with  their  opening  lotus 
flowers.  For  it  is  the  hall  of  the  lotus  columns  that 
Ibrahim  calls  the  thinking  place  of  the  king. 

There  is  something  both  lovely  and  touching  to  me 
in  the  lotus  columns  of  Egypt,  in  the  tall  masses  of 
stone  opening  out  into  flowers  near  the  sun.  Near  the 
sun!  Yes;  only  that  obvious  falsehood  will  convey  to 
those  who  have  not  seen  them  the  effect  of  some  of  the 
hypostyle  halls,  the  columns  of  which  seem  literally 
soaring  to  the  sky.  And  flowers  of  stone,  you  will  say, 
rudely  carved  and  rugged!  That  does  not  matter. 
There  was  poetry  in  the  minds  that  conceived  them,  in 
the  thought  that  directed  the  hands  which  shaped  them 
and  placed  them  where  they  are.  In  Egypt  perpetually 
one  feels  how  the  ancient  Egyptians  loved  the  Nym- 
fthcea  Lotus , which  is  the  white  lotus,  and  the  Nymphcea 

1 39 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


cceruloca,  the  lotus  that  is  blue.  Did  they  not  place 
Horus  in  its  cup,  and  upon  the  head  of  Nefer-Tum, 
the  nature  god,  who  represented  in  their  mythology 
the  heat  of  the  rising  sun,  and  who  seems  to  have  been 
credited  with  power  to  grant  life  in  the  world  to  come, 
set  it  as  a sort  of  regal  ornament?  To  Seti  I,  when 
he  returned  in  glory  from  his  triumphs  over  the  Syrians, 
were  given  bouquets  of  lotus  blossoms  by  the  great 
officers  of  his  household.  The  tiny  column  of  green 
feldspar  ending  in  the  lotus  typified  eternal  youth,  even 
as  the  carnelian  buckle  typified  the  blood  of  Isis,  which 
washed  away  all  sin.  Kohl  pots  were  fashioned  in  the 
form  of  the  lotus,  cartouches  sprang  from  it,  wine  flowed 
from  cups  shaped  like  it.  The  lotus  was  part  of  the 
very  life  of  Egypt,  as  the  rose,  the  American  beauty 
rose,  is  part  of  our  social  life  of  to-day.  And  here,  in 
the  Ramesseum,  I found  campaniform,  or  lotus-flower 
capitals  on  the  columns — here  where  Rameses  once 
perhaps  dreamed  of  his  Syrian  campaigns,  or  of  that 
famous  combat  when,  “ like  Baal  in  his  fury,”  he  fought 
single-handed  against  the  host  of  the  Hittites  massed 
in  two  thousand,  five  hundred  chariots  to  overthrow 
him. 

The  Ramesseum  is  a temple  not  of  winds,  but  of 
soft  and  kindly  airs.  There  comes  Zephyrus,  whis- 
pering love  to  Flora  incarnate  in  the  Lotus.  To  every 
sunbeam,  to  every  little  breeze,  the  ruins  stretch  out 
arms.  They  adore  the  deep-blue  sky,  the  shining, 

1 40 


HALL  OF  LOTUS  COLUMNS,  RAMESSEUM 


THE  RAMESSEUM 

sifted  sand,  untrammeled  nature,  all  that  whispers, 
“ Freedom.” 

So  I felt  that  day  when  Ibrahim  left  me,  so  I feel 
always  when  I sit  in  the  Ramesseum,  that  exultant  vic- 
tim of  Time’s  here  not  sacrilegious  hand. 

All  strong  souls  cry  out  secretly  for  liberty  as  for  a 
sacred  necessity  of  life.  Liberty  seems  to  drench  the 
Ramesseum.  And  all  strong  souls  must  exult  there. 
The  sun  has  taken  it  as  a beloved  possession.  No 
massy  walls  keep  him  out.  No  shield-shaped  battle- 
ments rear  themselves  up  against  the  outer  world  as  at 
Medinet-Abu.  No  huge  pylons  cast  down  upon  the 
ground  their  forms  in  darkness.  The  stone  glows  with 
the  sun,  seems  almost  to  have  a soul  glowing  with  the 
sense,  the  sun-ray  sense,  of  freedom.  The  heart  leaps 
up  in  the  Ramesseum  not  frivolously,  but  with  a 
strange,  sudden  knowledge  of  the  depths  of  passionate 
joy  there  are  in  life  and  in  bountiful,  glorious  nature. 
Instead  of  the  strength  of  a prison,  one  feels  the  ecstasy 
of  space;  instead  of  the  safety  of  inclosure,  the  rapture 
of  naked  publicity.  But  the  public  to  whom  this  place 
of  the  great  king  is  consigned  is  a public  of  Theban 
hills;  of  the  sunbeams  striking  from  them  over  the  wide 
world  toward  the  east;  of  light  airs,  of  drifting  sand 
grains,  of  singing  birds,  and  of  butterflies  with  pure 
white  wings.  If  you  have  ever  ridden  an  Arab  horse, 
mounted  in  the  heart  of  an  oasis,  to  the  verge  of  the 
great  desert,  you  will  remember  the  bound,  thrilling 

1 43 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


with  fiery  animation,  which  he  gives  when  he  sets  his 
feet  on  the  sand  beyond  the  last  tall  date-palms.  A 
bound  like  that  the  soul  gives  when  you  sit  in  the 
Ramesseum,  and  see  the  crowding  sunbeams,  the  far- 
off  groves  of  palm-trees,  and  the  drowsy  mountains, 
like  shadows,  that  sleep  beyond  the  Nile.  And  you 
look  up,  perhaps,  as  I looked  that  morning,  and  upon 
a lotus  column  near  you,  relieved,  you  perceive  the  fig- 
ure of  a young  man  singing. 

A young  man  singing!  Let  him  be  the  tutelary  god 
of  this  place,  whoever  he  be,  whether  only  some  humble, 
happy  slave,  or  the  “superintendent  of  song  and  of  the 
recreation  of  the  king.”  Rather  even  than  Amun-Ra 
let  him  be  the  god.  For  there  is  something  nobly 
joyous  in  this  architecture,  a dignity  that  sings. 

It  has  been  said,  but  not  established,  that  Rameses 
the  Great  was  buried  in  the  Ramesseum,  and  when 
first  I entered  it  the  “ Lay  of  the  Harper”  came  to  my 
mind,  with  the  sadness  that  attends  the  passing  away 
of  glory  into  the  shades  of  death.  But  an  optimism 
almost  as  determined  as  Emerson's  was  quickly  bred 
in  me  there.  I could  not  be  sad,  though  I could  be 
happily  thoughtful,  in  the  light  of  the  Ramesseum. 
And  even  when  I left  the  thinking  place,  and,  coming 
down  the  central  aisle,  saw  in  the  immersing  sunshine 
of  the  Osiride  Court  the  fallen  colossus  of  the  king,  I 
was  not  struck  to  sadness. 

Imagine  the  greatest  figure  in  the  world, — such  a fig- 

14-4 


PILASTERS  AND  BROKEN  COLOSSAL  STATUE  OF  RAMESES  II 


THE  RAMESSEUM 

ure  as  this  Rameses  was  in  his  day, — with  all  might, 
all  glory,  all  climbing  power,  all  vigor,  tenacity  of 
purpose,  and  granite  strength  of  will  concentrated 
within  it,  struck  suddenly  down,  and  falling  backward  in 
a collapse  of  which  the  thunder  might  shake  the  vitals  of 
the  earth,  and  you  have  this  prostrate  colossus.  Even 
now  one  seems  to  hear  it  fall,  to  feel  the  warm  soil 
trembling  beneath  one’s  feet  as  one  approaches  it.  A 
row  of  statues  of  enormous  size,  with  arms  crossed  as  if 
in  resignation,  glowing  in  the  sun,  in  color  not  gold  or 
amber,  but  a delicate,  desert  yellow,  watch  near  it  like 
servants  of  the  dead.  On  a slightly  lower  level  than 
theirs  it  lies,  and  a little  nearer  the  Nile.  Only  the 
upper  half  of  the  figure  is  left,  but  its  size  is  really  ter- 
rific. This  colossus  was  fifty-seven  feet  high.  It 
weighed  eight  hundred  tons.  Eight  hundred  tons  of 
syenite  went  to  its  making,  and  across  the  shoulders  its 
breadth  is,  or  was,  over  twenty-two  feet.  But  one 
does  not  think  of  measurements  as  one  looks  upon  it. 
It  is  stupendous.  That  is  obvious  and  that  is  enough. 
Nor  does  one  think  of  its  finish,  of  its  beautiful,  rich 
color,  of  any  of  its  details.  One  thinks  of  it  as  a tre- 
mendous personage  laid  low,  as  the  mightiest  of  the 
mighty  fallen.  One  thinks  of  it  as  the  dead  Rameses 
whose  glory  still  looms  over  Egypt  like  a golden  cloud 
that  will  not  disperse.  One  thinks  of  it  as  the  soul  that 
commanded,  and,  lo!  there  rose  up  above  the  sands,  at 
the  foot  of  the  hills  of  Thebes,  the  exultant  Ramesseum. 

*47 


XII 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 

PLACE  for  Queen  Hatshepsu!  Surely  she  comes 
to  a sound  of  flutes,  a merry  noise  of  thin, 
bright  music,  backed  by  a clashing  of  barbaric 
cymbals,  along  the  corridors  of  the  past;  this  queen  who 
is  shown  upon  Egyptian  walls  dressed  as  a man,  who 
is  said  to  have  worn  a beard,  and  who  sent  to  the  land 
of  Punt  the  famous  expedition  which  covered  her  with 
glory  and  brought  gold  to  the  god  Amun.  To  me  most 
feminine  she  seemed  when  I saw  her  temple  at  Deir-el- 
Bahari,  with  its  brightness  and  its  suavity;  its  pretty 
shallowness  and  sunshine;  its  white,  and  blue,  and  yel- 
low, and  red,  and  green  and  orange;  all  very  trim  and 
fanciful,  all  very  smart  and  delicate;  full  of  finesse 
and  laughter,  and  breathing  out  to  me  of  the  twentieth 
century  the  coquetry  of  a woman  in  1500  b.c.  After 
the  terrific  masculinity  of  Medinet-Abu,  after  the  great 
freedom  of  the  Ramesseum,  and  the  grandeur  of  its 
colossus,  the  manhood  of  all  the  ages  concentrated  in 
granite,  the  temple  at  Deir-el-Bahari  came  upon  me  like 
a delicate  woman,  perfumed  and  arranged,  clothed  in  a 

148 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  QUEEN  HATASU  DEI R-EL-BAH AR1 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


creation  of  white  and  blue  and  orange,  standing — ever 
so  knowingly  — against  a background  of  orange  and 
pink,  of  red  and  of  brown-red,  a smiling  coquette  of  the 
mountain,  a gay  and  sweet  enchantress  who  knew  her 
pretty  powers  and  meant  to  exercise  them. 

Hatshepsu  with  a beard  ! Never  will  I believe  it. 
Or  if  she  ever  seemed  to  wear  one,  I will  swear  it  was 
only  the  tattooed  ornament  with  which  all  the  lovely 
women  of  the  Fayum  decorate  their  chins  to-day, 
throwing  into  relief  the  smiling,  soft  lips,  the  delicate 
noses,  the  liquid  eyes,  and  leading  one  from  it  step  by 
step  to  the  beauties  it  precedes. 

Mr.  Wallis  Budge  says  in  his  book  on  the  antiquities 
of  Egypt:  “It  would  be  unjust  to  the  memory  of  a 
great  man  and  a loyal  servant  of  Hatshepsu,  if  we 
omitted  to  mention  the  name  of  Senmut,  the  architect 
and  overseer  of  works  at  Deir-el-Bahari.”  By  all 
means  let  Senmut  be  mentioned,  and  then  let  him  be 
utterly  forgotten.  A radiant  queen  reigns  here  — a 
queen  of  fantasy  and  splendor,  and  of  that  divine  shal- 
lowness— refined  frivolity  literally  cut  into  the  moun- 
tain— which  is  the  note  of  Deir-el-Bahari.  And  what 
a clever  background!  Oh,  Hatshepsu  knew  what  she 
was  doing  when  she  built  her  temple  here.  It  was 
not  the  solemn  Senmut  (he  wore  a beard,  I ’m  sure) 
who  chose  that  background,  if  I know  anything  of 
women. 

Long  before  I visited  Deir-el-Bahari  I had  looked 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


at  it  from  afar.  My  eyes  had  been  drawn  to  it  merely 
from  its  situation  right  underneath  the  mountains.  I 
had  asked:  “What  do  those  little  pillars  mean?  And 

are  those  little  doors?”  I had  promised  myself  to  go 
there,  as  one  promises  oneself  a bonne  bouche  to  finish 
a happy  banquet.  And  I had  realized  the  subtlety, 
essentially  feminine,  that  had  placed  a temple  there. 
And  Mentu-Hotep’s  temple,  perhaps  you  say,  was  it 
not  there  before  the  queen’s?  Then  he  must  have  pos- 
sessed a subtlety  purely  feminine,  or  have  been  advised 
by  one  of  his  wives  in  his  building  operations,  or  by  some 
favorite  female  slave.  Blundering,  unsubtle  man  would 
probably  think  that  the  best  way  to  attract  and  to  fix 
attention  on  any  object  was  to  make  it  much  bigger 
than  things  near  and  around  it,  to  set  up  a giant  among 
dwarfs. 

Not  so  Queen  Hatshepsu.  More  artful  in  her  gen- 
eration, she  set  her  long  but  little  temple  against  the 
precipices  of  Libya.  And  what  is  the  result  ? Simply 
that  whenever  one  looks  toward  them  one  says,  “What 
are  those  little  pillars?”  Or  if  one  is  more  instructed, 
one  thinks  about  Queen  Hatshepsu.  The  precipices 
are  as  nothing.  A woman’s  wile  has  blotted  them  out. 

And  yet  how  grand  they  are  ! I have  called  them 
tiger-colored  precipices.  And  they  suggest  tawny  wild 
beasts,  fierce,  bred  in  a land  that  is  the  prey  of  the  sun. 
Every  shade  of  orange  and  yellow  glows  and  grows 
pale  on  their  bosses,  in  their  clefts.  They  shoot  out 

152 


RECENT  EXCAVATIONS  AT  DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


turrets  of  rock  that  blaze  like  flames  in  the  day.  They 
show  great  teeth,  like  the  tiger  when  any  one  draws 
near.  And,  like  the  tiger,  they  seem  perpetually  in- 
formed by  a spirit  that  is  angry.  Blake  wrote  of  the 
tiger  : 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 

In  the  forests  of  the  night. 

These  tiger-precipices  of  Libya  are  burning  things, 
avid  like  beasts  of  prey.  But  the  restored  apricot- 
colored  pillars  are  not  afraid  of  their  impending  fury — 
fury  of  a beast  baffled  by  a tricky  little  woman,  almost 
it  seems  to  me;  and  still  less  afraid  are  the  white  pillars, 
and  the  brilliant  paintings  that  decorate  the  walls 
within. 

As  many  people  in  the  sad  but  lovely  islands  off  the 
coast  of  Scotland  believe  in  “doubles,”  as  the  old 
classic  writers  believed  in  man’s  “genius,”  so  the  an- 
cient Egyptians  believed  in  his  “ Ka,”  or  separate 
entity,  a sort  of  spiritual  other  self,  to  be  propitiated 
and  ministered  to,  presented  with  gifts,  and  served  with 
energy  and  ardor.  On  this  temple  of  Deir-el-Bahari 
is  the  scene  of  the  birth  of  Hatshepsu,  and  there  are 
two  babies,  the  princess  and  her  Ka.  For  this  imagined 
Ka,  when  a great  queen,  long  after,  she  built  this 
temple,  or  chapel,  that  offerings  might  be  made  there 
on  certain  appointed  days.  Fortunate  Ka  of  Hatshepsu 
to  have  had  so  cheerful  a dwelling ! Liveliness  per- 
vades Deir-el-Bahari.  I remember,  when  I was  on 


1 5 5 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


my  first  visit  to  Egypt,  lunching  at  Thebes  with  Mon- 
sieur Naville  and  Mr.  Hogarth,  and  afterward  going 
with  them  to  watch  the  digging  away  of  the  masses  of 
sand  and  rubbish  which  concealed  this  gracious  build- 
ing. I remember  the  songs  of  the  half-naked  work- 
men toiling  and  sweating  in  the  sun.  And  I remember 
seeing  a white  temple  wall  come  up  into  the  light  with 
all  the  painted  figures  surely  dancing  with  joy  upon  it. 
And  they  are  surely  dancing  still. 

Here  you  may  see,  brilliant  as  yesterday’s  picture 
anywhere,  fascinatingly  decorative  trees  growing 
bravely  in  little  pots,  red  people  offering  incense  which 
is  piled  up  in  mounds  like  mountains ; Ptah-Seket, 
Osiris  receiving  a royal  gift  of  wine,  the  queen  in  the 
company  of  various  divinities,  and  the  terrible  ordeal 
of  the  cows.  The  cows  are  being  weighed  in  scales. 
There  are  three  of  them.  One  is  a philosopher,  and 
reposes  with  an  air  that  says,  “Even  this  last  indignity 
of  being  weighed  against  my  will  cannot  perturb  my 
soaring  spirit.”  But  the  other  two,  sitting  up,  look  as 
apprehensive  as  old  ladies  in  a rocking  express,  ex- 
pectant of  an  accident.  The  vividness  of  the  colors 
in  this  temple  is  quite  wonderful.  And  much  of  its 
great  attraction  comes  rather  from  its  position,  and  from 
them,  than  essentially  from  itself.  At  Deir-el-Bahari, 
what  the  long  shell  contains — its  happy  murmur  of  life 
— is  more  fascinating  than  the  shell.  There,  instead  of 
being  uplifted  or  overawed  by  form,  we  are  rejoiced  by 

156 


“THE  HALF-NAKED  WORKMEN  TOILING  AND  SWEATING 

IN  THE  SUN” 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


color,  by  the  high  vivacity  of  arrested  movement,  by 
the  story  that  color  and  movement  tell.  And  over  all 
there  is  the  bright,  blue,  painted  sky,  studded,  almost 
distractedly  studded,  with  a plethora  of  the  yellow  stars 
the  Egyptians  made  like  starfish. 

The  restored  apricot-colored  columns  outside  look 
unhappily  suburban  when  you  are  near  them.  The 
white  columns  with  their  architraves  are  more  pleasant 
to  the  eyes.  The  niches  full  of  bright  hues,  the  arched 
chapels,  the  small,  white  steps  leading  upward  to  shal- 
low sanctuaries,  the  small  black  foxes  facing  each 
other  on  little  yellow  pedestals — attract  one  like  the 
details  and  amusing  ornaments  of  a clever  woman’s 
boudoir.  Through  this  most  characteristic  temple  one 
roves  in  a gaily  attentive  mood,  feeling  all  the  time 
Hatshepsu’s  fascination. 

You  may  see  her,  if  you  will,  a little  lady  on  the 
wall,  with  a face  decidedly  sensual — a long,  straight  nose, 
thick  lips,  an  expression  rather  determined  than  agree- 
able. Her  mother  looks  as  Semitic  as  a Jew  money- 
lender in  Brick  Lane,  London.  Her  husband,  Thothmes 
II,  has  a weak  and  poor-spirited  countenance.  De- 
cidedly an  accomplished  performer  on  the  second  violin. 
The  mother  wears  on  her  head  a snake,  no  doubt  a cobra- 
di-capello,  the  symbol  of  her  sovereignty.  Thothmes 
is  clad  in  a loin-cloth.  And  a god,  with  a sleepy  ex- 
pression and  a very  fishlike  head,  appears  in  this  group 
of  personages  to  offer  the  key  of  life.  Another  paint- 

1 59 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


ing  of  the  queen  shows  her  on  her  knees  drinking  milk 
from  the  sacred  cow,  with  an  intent  and  greedy  figure, 
and  an  extraordinarily  sensual  and  expressive  face. 
That  she  was  well  guarded  is  surely  proved  by  a brave 
display  of  her  soldiers — red  men  on  a white  wall.  Full 
of  life  and  gaiety,  all  in  a row  they  come,  holding 
weapons,  and,  apparently,  branches,  and  advancing 
with  a gait  of  triumph  that  tells  of  “ spacious  days.” 
And  at  their  head  is  an  officer,  who  looks  back,  much 
like  a modern  drill  sergeant,  to  see  how  his  men  are 
marching. 

In  the  southern  shrine  of  the  temple,  cut  in  the  rock 
as  is  the  northern  shrine,  once  more  I found  traces  of 
the  “Lady  of  the  Under-world.”  For  this  shrine  was 
dedicated  to  Hathor,  though  the  whole  temple  was 
sacred  to  the  Theban  god  Amun.  Upon  a column 
were  the  remains  of  the  goddess’s  face,  with  a broad 
brow  and  long,  large  eyes.  Some  fanatic  had  hacked 
away  the  mouth. 

The  tomb  of  Hatshepsu  was  found  by  Mr.  Theodore 
M.  Davis,  and  the  famous  Vache  of  Deir-el-Bahari  by 
Monsieur  Naville  as  lately  as  1905.  It  stands  in  the 
museum  at  Cairo,  but  forever  it  will  be  connected  in 
the  minds  of  men  with  the  tiger-colored  precipices  and 
the  Colonnades  of  Thebes.  Behind  the  ruins  of  the 
temple  of  Mentu-Hotep  III,  in  a chapel  of  painted 
rock,  the  Vache-Hathor  was  found. 

It  is  not  easy  to  convey  by  any  description  the  im- 

1 60 


THE  VACHE  HATHOR  OF  DENDERAH 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


pression  this  marvelous  statue  makes.  Many  of  us 
love  our  dogs,  our  horses,  some  of  us  adore  our  cats ; 
but  which  of  us  can  think,  without  a smile,  of  worship- 
ing a cow?  Yet  the  cow  was  the  Egyptian  Aphrodite’s 
sacred  animal.  Under  the  form  of  a cow  she  was 
often  represented.  And  in  the  statue  she  is  presented 
to  us  as  a limestone  cow.  And  positively  this  cow  is 
to  be  worshiped. 

She  is  shown  in  the  act  apparently  of  stepping 
gravely  forward  out  of  a small  arched  shrine,  the  walls 
of  which  are  decorated  with  brilliant  paintings.  Her 
color  is  red  and  yellowish  red,  and  is  covered  with 
blotches  of  very  dark  green,  which  look  almost  black. 
Only  one  or  two  are  of  a bluish  color.  Her  height  is 
moderate.  I stand  about  five  foot  nine,  and  I found 
that  on  her  pedestal  the  line  of  her  back  was  about 
level  with  my  chest.  The  lower  part  of  the  body, 
much  of  which  is  concealed  by  the  under  block  of  lime- 
stone, is  white,  tinged  with  yellow.  The  tail  is  red. 
Above  the  head,  open  and  closed  lotus  flowers  form  a 
head-dress,  with  the  lunar  disk  and  two  feathers.  And 
the  long  lotus  stalks  flow  down  on  each  side  of  the 
neck  toward  the  ground.  At  the  back  of  this  head- 
dress are  a scarab  and  a cartouche.  The  goddess  is 
advancing  solemnly  and  gently.  A wonderful  calm,  a 
matchless,  serene  dignity  enfold  her. 

In  the  body  of  this  cow  one  is  able,  indeed  one  is 
almost  obliged,  to  feel  the  soul  of  a goddess.  The  in- 

163 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


credible  is  accomplished.  The  dead  Egyptian  makes 
the  ironic,  the  skeptical  modern  world  feel  deity  in  a 
limestone  cow.  How  is  it  done?  I know  not;  but  it 
is  done.  Genius  can  do  nearly  anything,  it  seems. 
Under  the  chin  of  the  cow  there  is  a standing  statue  of 
the  King  Mentu-Hotep,  and  beneath  her  the  king 
kneels  as  a boy.  Wonderfully  expressive  and  solemnly 
refined  is  the  cow’s  face,  which  is  of  a dark  color,  like 
the  color  of  almost  black  earth — earth  fertilized  by  the 
Nile.  Dignified,  dominating,  almost  but  just  not  stern, 
strongly  intelligent,  and,  through  its  beautiful  intelli- 
gence, entirely  sympathetic  (“to  understand  all,  is  to 
pardon  all  ”),  this  face,  once  thoroughly  seen,  com- 
pletely noticed,  can  never  be  forgotten.  This  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  statues  in  the  world. 

When  I was  at  Deir-el-Bahari  I thought  of  it  and 
wished  that  it  still  stood  there  near  the  Colonnades  of 
Thebes  under  the  tiger-colored  precipices.  And  then 
I thought  of  Hatshepsu.  Surely  she  could  not  brook 
a rival  to-day  near  the  temple  which  she  made — a 
rival  long  lost  and  long  forgotten.  Is  not  her  influence 
still  there  upon  the  terraced  platforms,  among  the  ap- 
ricot and  the  white  columns,  near  the  paintings  of  the 
land  of  Punt  ? Did  it  not  whisper  to  the  antiquaries, 
even  to  the  soldiers  from  Cairo,  who  guarded  the 
Vache-Hathor  in  the  night,  to  make  haste  to  take  her 
away  far  from  the  hills  of  Thebes,  and  from  the  Nile’s 
long  southern  reaches,  that  the  great  queen  might  once 

i 64 


DEIR-EL-BAHARI 


more  reign  alone  ? They  obeyed.  Hatshepsu  was 
appeased.  And,  like  a delicate  woman,  perfumed  and 
arranged,  clothed  in  a creation  of  white  and  blue  and 
orange,  standing  ever  so  knowingly  against  a back- 
ground of  orange  and  pink,  of  red  and  of  brown-red, 
she  rules  at  Deir-el-Bahaii. 


XIII 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS 

ON  the  way  to  the  tombs  of  the  kings  I went  to 
the  temple  of  Kurna,  that  lonely  cenotaph, 
with  its  sand-colored,  massive  facade,  its  heaps 
of  fallen  stone,  its  wide  and  ruined  doorway,  its  thick, 
almost  rough,  columns  recalling  Medinet-Abu.  There 
is  not  very  much  to  see,  but  from  there  one  has  a fine 
view  of  other  temples — of  the  Ramesseum,  looking 
superb,  like  a grand  skeleton  ; of  Medinet-Abu,  distant, 
very  pale  gold  in  the  morning  sunlight;  of  little  Deir-al- 
Medinet,  the  pretty  child  of  the  Ptolemies,  with  the  heads 
of  the  seven  Hathors.  And  from  Kurna  the  Colossi  are 
exceptionally  grand  and  exceptionally  personal,  so  per- 
sonal that  one  imagines  one  sees  the  expressions  of  the 
faces  that  they  no  longer  possess. 

Even  if  you  do  not  go  into  the  tombs, — but  you  will 
go, — you  must  ride  to  the  tombs  of  the  kings ; and 
you  must,  if  you  care  for  the  finesse  of  impressions, 
ride  on  a blazing  day  and  toward  the  hour  of  noon. 
Then  the  ravine  is  itself,  like  the  great  act  that  demon- 
strates a temperament.  It  is  the  narrow  home  of  fire, 

1 66 


PAINTED  TOMB  CHAMBER  OE  PRINCE  SEN-NOEER,  THEBES 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS 


hemmed  in  by  brilliant  colors,  nearly  all — perhaps 
quite  all  — of  which  could  be  found  in  a glowing 
furnace.  Every  shade  of  yellow  is  there, —lemon 
yellow,  sulphur  yellow,  the  yellow  of  amber,  the  yel- 
low of  orange  with  its  tendency  toward  red,  the  yellow 
of  gold,  sand  color,  sun  color.  Cannot  all  these  yel- 
lows be  found  in  a fire  ? And  there  are  reds — pink  of 
the  carnation,  pink  of  the  coral,  red  of  the  little  rose 
that  grows  in  certain  places  of  sands,  red  of  the  bright 
flame’s  heart.  And  all  these  colors  are  mingled  in  com- 
plete sterility.  And  all  are  fused  into  a fierce  brotherhood 
by  the  sun.  And  like  a flood,  they  seem  flowing  to  the 
red  and  the  yellow  mountains,  like  a flood  that  is  flow- 
ing to  its  sea.  You  are  taken  by  them  toward  the 
mountains,  on  and  on,  till  the  world  is  closing  in,  and 
you  know  the  way  must  come  to  an  end.  And  it  comes 
to  an  end — in  a tomb. 

You  go  to  a door  in  the  rock,  and  a guardian  lets 
you  in,  and  wants  to  follow  you  in.  Prevent  him  if 
you  can.  Pay  him.  Go  in  alone.  For  this  is  the 
tomb  of  Amenhotep  II  ; and  he  himself  is  here,  far 
down,  at  rest  under  the  mountain,  this  king  who  lived 
and  reigned  more  than  fourteen  hundred  years  before 
the  birth  of  Christ.  The  ravine-valley  leads  to  him, 
and  you  should  go  to  him  alone.  He  lies  in  the  heart 
of  the  living  rock,  in  the  dull  heat  of  the  earth’s  bow- 
els, which  is  like  no  other  heat.  You  descend  by  stairs 
and  corridors,  you  pass  over  a well  by  a bridge,  you 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


pass  through  a naked  chamber ; and  the  king  is  not 
there.  And  you  go  on  down  another  staircase,  and 
along  another  corridor,  and  you  come  into  a pillared 
chamber,  with  paintings  on  its  walls,  and  on  its  pillars, 
paintings  of  the  king  in  the  presence  of  the  gods  of  the 
under-world,  under  stars  in  a soft  blue  sky.  And  below 
you,  shut  in  on  the  farther  side  by  the  solid  mountain 
in  whose  breast  you  have  all  this  time  been  walking, 
there  is  a crypt.  And  you  turn  away  from  the  bright 
paintings,  and  down  there  you  see  the  king. 

Many  years  ago  in  London  I went  to  the  private 
view  of  the  Royal  Academy  at  Burlington  House.  I 
went  in  the  afternoon  when  the  galleries  were  crowded 
with  politicians  and  artists,  with  dealers,  gossips,  quid- 
nuncs, and  flaneurs;  with  authors,  fashionable  lawyers, 
and  doctors  ; with  men  and  women  of  the  world  ; with 
young  dandies  and  actresses  en  vogue.  A roar  of  voices 
went  up  to  the  roof.  Every  one  was  talking,  smiling, 
laughing,  commenting,  and  criticizing.  It  was  a little 
picture  of  the  very  worldly  world  that  loves  the  things 
of  to-day  and  the  chime  of  the  passing  hours.  And 
suddenly  some  people  near  me  were  silent,  and  some 
turned  their  heads  to  stare  with  a strangely  fixed 
attention.  And  I saw  coming  toward  me  an  emaciated 
figure,  rather  bent,  much  drawn  together,  walking 
slowly  on  legs  like  sticks.  It  was  clad  in  black,  with  a 
gleam  of  color.  Above  it  was  a face  so  intensely  thin 
that  it  was  like  the  face  of  death.  And  in  this  face  shone 


170 


TEMPLE  OF  ESNEH 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS 


two  eyes  that  seemed  full  of — the  other  world.  And, 
like  a breath  from  the  other  world  passing,  this  man 
went  by  me  and  was  hidden  from  me  by  the  throng. 
It  was  Cardinal  Manning  in  the  last  days  of  his  life. 

The  face  of  this  king  is  like  his,  but  it  has  an  even 
deeper  pathos  as  it  looks  upward  to  the  rock.  And 
the  king’s  silence  bids  you  be  silent,  and  his  immo- 
bility bids  you  be  still.  And  his  sad,  and  unutterable 
resignation  sifts  awe,  as  by  the  desert  wind  the  sand  is 
sifted  into  the  temples,  into  the  temple  of  your  heart. 
And  you  feel  the  touch  of  time,  but  the  touch  of  eter- 
nity, too.  And  as,  in  that  rock-hewn  sanctuary,  you 
whisper  “Pax  vobiscum,”  you  say  it  for  all  the  world. 


1 73 


XIV 


EDFU 

PRAYER  pervades  the  East.  Far  off  across  the 
sands,  when  one  is  traveling  in  the  desert,  one 
sees  thin  minarets  rising  toward  the  sky.  A 
desert  city  is  there.  It  signals  its  presence  by  this  mute 
appeal  to  Allah.  And  where  there  are  no  minarets, — 
in  the  great  wastes  of  the  dunes,  in  the  eternal  silence, 
the  lifelessness  that  is  not  broken  even  by  any  lonely, 
wandering  bird, — the  camels  are  stopped  at  the  ap- 
pointed hours,  the  poor,  and  often  ragged,  robes  are 
laid  down,  the  brown  pilgrims  prostrate  themselves  in 
prayer.  And  the  rich  man  spreads  his  carpet,  and 
prays.  And  the  half-naked  nomad  spreads  nothing; 
but  he  prays,  too.  The  East  is  full  of  lust,  and  full  of 
money-getting,  and  full  of  bartering,  and  full  of  vio- 
lence ; but  it  is  full  of  worship — of  worship  that  dis- 
dains concealment,  that  recks  not  of  ridicule  or 
comment,  that  believes  too  utterly  to  care  if  others 
disbelieve.  There  are  in  the  East  many  men  who  do 
not  pray.  They  do  not  laugh  at  the  man  who  does, 
like  the  unpraying  Christian.  There  is  nothing  ludicrous 


*74 


PRAYER  IN  TIIE  DESERT 


EDFU 


to  them  in  prayer.  In  Egypt  your  Nubian  sailor  prays 
in  the  stern  of  your  dahabiyeh  ; and  your  Egyptian 
boatman  prays  by  the  rudder  of  your  boat ; and  your 
black  donkey-boy  prays  behind  a red  rock  in  the  sand ; 
and  your  camel-man  prays  when  you  are  resting  in  the 
noontide,  watching  the  far-off,  quivering  mirage,  lost 
in  some  wayward  dream. 

And  must  you  not  pray,  too,  when  you  enter  certain 
temples  where  once  strange  gods  were  worshiped  in 
whom  no  man  now  believes? 

There  is  one  temple  on  the  Nile  which  seems  to  em- 
brace in  its  arms  ail  the  worship  of  the  past;  to  be  full 
of  prayers  and  solemn  praises  ; to  be  the  holder,  the 
noble  keeper,  of  the  sacred  longings,  of  the  unearthly 
desires  and  aspirations,  of  the  dead.  It  is  the  temple 
of  Edfu.  From  all  the  other  temples  it  stands  apart. 
It  is  the  temple  of  the  inward  flame,  of  the  secret  soul 
of  man ; of  that  mystery  within  us  that  is  exquisitely 
sensitive,  and  exquisitely  alive;  that  has  longings  it 
cannot  tell,  and  sorrows  it  dare  not  whisper,  and  loves 
it  can  only  love. 

To  Horus  it  was  dedicated, — hawk-headed  Horus, 
— the  son  of  Isis  and  Osiris,  who  was  crowned  with 
many  crowns,  who  was  the  young  Apollo  of  the  old 
Egyptian  world.  But  though  I know  this,  I am  never 
able  to  associate  Edfu  with  Horus,  that  child  wearing 
the  side-lock, — when  he  is  not  hawk-headed  in  his 
solar  aspect, — that  boy  with  his  finger  in  his  mouth, 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


that  youth  who  fought  against  Set,  murderer  of  his 
father. 

Edfu,  in  its  solemn  beauty,  in  its  perfection  of  form, 
seems  to  me  to  pass  into  a region  altogether  beyond 
identification  with  the  worship  of  any  special  deity, 
with  particular  attributes,  perhaps  with  particular  limi- 
tations ; one  who  can  be  graven  upon  walls,  and  upon 
architraves  and  pillars  painted  in  brilliant  colors ; one 
who  can  personally  pursue  a criminal,  like  some  police- 
man in  the  street ; even  one  who  can  rise  upon  the 
world  in  the  visible  glory  of  the  sun.  To  me,  Edfu 
must  always  represent  the  world-worship  of  “the 
Hidden  One”;  not  Amun,  god  of  the  dead,  fused  with 
Ra,  with  Amsu,  or  with  Khnum  : but  that  other  “ Hid- 
den One,”  who  is  God  of  the  happy  hunting-ground  of 
savages,  with  whom  the  Buddhist  strives  to  merge  his 
strange  serenity  of  soul;  who  is  adored  in  the  “Holy 
Places  ” by  the  Moslem,  and  lifted  mystically  above  the 
heads  of  kneeling  Catholics  in  cathedrals  dim  with  in- 
cense, and  merrily  praised  with  the  banjo  and  the  trumpet 
in  the  streets  of  black  English  cities;  who  is  asked  for 
children  by  longing  women,  and  for  new  dolls  by  lisping 
babes ; whom  the  atheist  denies  in  the  day,  and  fears  in 
the  darkness  of  night ; who  is  on  the  lips  alike  of  priest 
and  blasphemer,  and  in  the  soul  of  all  human  life. 

Edfu  is  the  temple  of  “the  Hidden  One.”  It  is  not 
pagan  ; it  is  not  Christian : it  is  a place  in  which  to 
worship  according  to  the  dictates  of  your  heart. 

178 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  EDFU 


EDFU 


Edfu  stands  alone,  not  near  any  other  temple,  on  the 
bank  of  the  Nile  between  Luxor  and  Assuan.  It  is 
not  very  far  from  El-Kab,  once  the  capital  of  Upper 
Egypt,  and  it  is  about  two  thousand  years  old.  The 
building  of  it  took  over  one  hundred  and  eighty  years, 
and  it  is  the  most  perfectly  preserved  temple  to-day  of 
all  the  antique  world.  It  is  huge  and  it  is  splendid.  It 
has  towers  one  hundred  and  twelve  feet  high,  a propy- 
lon two  hundred  and  fifty-two  feet  broad,  and  walls 
four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long.  Begun  in  the  reign 
of  Ptolemy  III,  it  was  completed  only  fifty-seven  years 
before  the  birth  of  Christ. 

You  know  these  facts  about  it,  and  you  forget  them, 
or  at  least  you  do  not  think  of  them.  What  does  all 
that  matter  when  you  are  alone  in  Edfu?  Let  the  anti- 
quarian go  with  his  anxious  nose  almost  touching  the 
stone  ; let  the  Egyptologist  peer  through  his  glasses  at 
hieroglyphs  and  puzzle  out  the  meaning  of  cartouches : 
but  let  us  wander  at  ease,  and  worship,  and  regard  the 
exquisite  form,  and  drink  in  the  mystical  spirit,  of  this 
very  wonderful  temple. 

Do  you  care  about  form?  Here  you  will  find  it  in 
absolute  perfection.  Edfu  is  the  consecration  of  form. 
In  proportion  it  is  supreme  above  all  other  Egyptian 
temples.  Its  beauty  of  form  is  like  a music.  Its  de- 
sign affects  one  like  the  chiseled  loveliness  of  a perfect 
sonnet.  While  the  world  lasts,  no  architect  can  arise 
to  create  a building  more  satisfying,  more  calm  with  the 
13  i 8 i 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

calm  of  faultlessness,  more  serene  with  a just  serenity. 
Or  so  it  seems  to  me.  I think  of  the  most  lovely  build- 
ings I know  in  Europe — of  the  Alhambra  at  Granada, 
of  the  Cappella  Palatina  in  the  palace  at  Palermo.  And 
Edfu  I place  with  them — Edfu  utterly  different  from 
them,  more  different,  perhaps,  even  than  they  are  from 
each  other,  but  akin  to  them,  as  all  great  beauty  is 
mysteriously  akin.  I have  spent  morning  after  morn- 
ing in  the  Alhambra,  and  many  and  many  an  hour  in 
the  Cappella  Palatina ; and  never  have  I been  weary  of 
either,  or  longed  to  go  away.  And  this  same  sweet 
desire  to  stay  came  over  me  in  Edfu.  The  Loulia  was 
tied  up  by  the  high  bank  of  the  Nile.  The  sailors  were 
glad  to  rest.  There  was  no  steamer  sounding  its 
hideous  siren  to  call  me  to  its  crowded  deck.  So  I 
yielded  to  my  desire,  and  for  long  I stayed  in  Edfu. 
And  when  at  last  I left  it  I said  to  myself,  “ This  is  a 
supreme  thing,"  and  I knew  that  within  me  had  sud- 
denly developed  the  curious  passion  for  buildings  that 
some  people  never  feel,  and  that  others  feel  ever  grow- 
ing and  growing. 

Yes,  Edfu  is  supreme.  No  alteration  could  improve 
it.  Any  change  made  in  it,  however  slight,  could  only 
be  harmful  to  it.  Pure  and  perfect  is  its  design — broad 
propylon,  great  open  courtyard  with  pillared  galleries, 
halls,  chambers,  sanctuary.  Its  dignity  and  its  sobriety 
are  matchless.  I know  they  must  be,  because  they 
touched  me  so  strangely,  with  a kind  of  reticent  en- 

182 


PYLON,  TEMPLE  OF  EDFU 


EDFU 


chantment,  and  I am  not  by  nature  enamoured  of  so- 
briety, of  reticence  and  calm,  but  am  inclined  to  delight 
in  almost  violent  force,  in  brilliance,  and,  especially,  in 
combinations  of  color.  In  the  Alhambra  one  finds  both 
force  and  fairylike  lightness,  delicious  proportions,  del- 
icate fantasy,  a spell  as  of  subtle  magicians ; in  the 
Cappella  Palatina  a jeweled  splendor,  combined  with  a 
small  perfection  of  form  which  simply  captivates  the 
whole  spirit  and  leads  it  to  adoration.  In  Edfu  you 
are  face  to  face  with  hugeness  and  with  grandeur;  but 
soon  you  are  scarcely  aware  of  either — in  the  sense, 
at  least,  that  connects  these  qualities  with  a certain 
overwhelming,  almost  striking  down,  of  the  spirit  and 
the  faculties.  What  you  are  aware  of  is  your  own  im- 
mense and  beautiful  calm  of  utter  satisfaction — a calm 
which  has  quietly  inundated  you,  like  a waveless  tide 
of  the  sea.  How  rare  it  is  to  feel  this  absolute  satisfac- 
tion, this  praising  serenity!  The  critical  spirit  goes, 
like  a bird  from  an  opened  window.  The  excited,  laud- 
atory, voluble  spirit  goes.  And  this  splendid  calm  is 
left.  If  you  stay  here,  you,  as  this  temple  has  been, 
will  be  molded  into  a beautiful  sobriety.  From  the 
top  of  the  pylon  you  have  received  this  still  and  glori- 
ous impression  from  the  matchless  design  of  the  whole 
building,  which  you  see  best  from  there.  When  you 
descend  the  shallow  staircase,  when  you  stand  in  the 
great  court,  when  you  go  into  the  shadowy  halls,  then 
it  is  that  the  utter  satisfaction  within  you  deepens. 

•s5 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


Then  it  is  that  you  feel  the  need  to  worship  in  this 
place  created  for  worship. 

The  ancient  Egyptians  made  most  of  their  temples 
in  conformity  with  a single  type.  The  sanctuary  was 
the  heart,  the  core,  of  each  temple — the  sanctuary 
surrounded  by  the  chambers  in  which  were  laid  up  the 
precious  objects  connected  with  ceremonies  and  sac- 
rifices. Leading  to  this  core  of  the  temple,  which  was 
sometimes  called  “ the  divine  house,”  were  various  halls 
the  roofs  of  which  were  supported  by  columns — those 
hypostyle  halls  which  one  sees  perpetually  in  Egypt. 
Before  the  first  of  these  halls  was  a courtyard  sur- 
rounded by  a colonnade.  In  the  courtyard  the  priests 
of  the  temple  assembled.  The  people  were  allowed  to 
enter  the  colonnade.  A gateway  with  towers  gave  en- 
trance to  the  courtyard.  If  one  visits  many  of  the 
Egyptian  temples,  one  soon  becomes  aware  of  the 
subtlety,  combined  with  a sort  of  high  simplicity,  and 
sense  of  mystery  and  poetry,  of  these  builders  of  the 
past.  As  a great  writer  leads  one  on,  with  a concealed 
but  beautiful  art,  from  the  first  words  of  his  story  to  the 
last  — the  last  words  to  which  all  the  other  words  are 
ministering  servants  ; as  the  great  musician — Wagner 
in  his  “ Meistersinger,”  for  instance, — leads  one  from 
the  first  notes  of  his  score  to  those  final  notes  which 
magnificently  reveal  to  the  listeners  the  real  meaning  of 
those  first  notes,  and  of  all  the  notes  which  followed 
them : so  the  Egyptian  builders  lead  the  spirit  gently, 

1 86 


EDFU 


mysteriously  forward  from  the  gateway  between  the 
towers  to  the  distant  house  divine.  When  one  enters 
the  outer  court,  one  feels  the  far-off  sanctuary.  Almost 
unconsciously  one  is  aware  that  for  that  sanctuary  all 
the  rest  of  the  temple  was  created  ; that  to  that  sanctu- 
ary everything  tends.  And  in  spirit  one  is  drawn  softly 
onward  to  that  very  holy  place.  Slowly,  perhaps,  the 
body  moves  from  courtyard  to  hypostyle  hall,  and  from 
one  hall  to  another.  Hieroglyphs  are  examined,  car- 
touches  puzzled  out,  paintings  of  processions,  or  bas- 
reliefs  of  pastimes  and  of  sacrifices,  looked  at  with  care 
and  interest ; but  all  the  time  one  has  the  sense  of 
waiting,  of  a want  unsatisfied.  And  only  when  one  at 
last  reaches  the  sanctuary  is  one  perfectly  at  rest.  For 
then  the  spirit  feels  : “ This  is  the  meaning  of  it  all.” 
One  of  the  means  which  the  Egyptian  architects  used 
to  create  this  sense  of  approach  is  very  simple,  but 
perfectly  effective.  It  consists  only  in  making  each  hall 
on  a very  slightly  higher  level  than  the  one  preceding 
it,  and  the  sanctuary,  which  is  narrow  and  mysteriously 
dark,  on  the  highest  level  of  all.  Each  time  one  takes 
an  upward  step,  or  walks  up  a little  incline  of  stone, 
the  body  seems  to  convey  to  the  soul  a deeper  message 
of  reverence  and  awe.  In  no  other  temple  is  this  sense 
of  approach  to  the  heart  of  a thing  so  acute  as  it  is 
when  one  walks  in  Edfu.  In  no  other  temple,  when  the 
sanctuary  is  reached,  has  one  such  a strong  conscious- 
ness of  being  indeed  within  a sacred  heart. 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

The  color  of  Edfu  is  a pale  and  delicate  brown,  warm 
in  the  strong  sunshine,  but  seldom  glowing.  Its  first 
doorway  is  extraordinarily  high,  and  is  narrow,  but  very 
deep,  with  a roof  showing  traces  of  that  delicious,  clear 
blue-green  which  is  like  a thin  cry  of  joy  rising  up  in 
the  solemn  temples  of  Egypt.  A small  sphinx  keeps 
watch  on  the  right,  just  where  the  guardian  stands; 
this  guardian,  the  gift  of  the  past,  squat,  even  fat,  with 
a very  perfect  face  of  a determined  and  handsome  man. 
In  the  court,  upon  a pedestal,  stands  a big  bird,  and 
near  it  is  another  bird,  or  rather  half  of  a bird,  leaning 
forward,  and  much  defaced.  And  in  this  great  court- 
yard there  are  swarms  of  living  birds  twittering  in  the 
sunshine.  Through  the  doorway  between  the  towers 
one  sees  a glimpse  of  a native  village  with  the  cupolas 
of  a mosque. 

I stood  and  looked  at  the  cupolas  for  a moment. 
Then  I turned,  and  forgot  for  a time  the  life  of  the 
world  without — that  men,  perhaps,  were  praying  be- 
neath those  cupolas,  or  praising  the  Moslem’s  God. 
For  when  I turned,  I felt,  as  I have  said,  as  if  all  the 
worship  of  the  world  must  be  concentrated  here. 
Standing  far  down  the  open  court,  in  the  full  sunshine, 
I could  see  into  the  first  hypostyle  hall,  but  beyond 
only  a darkness — a darkness  which  led  me  on,  in 
which  the  further  chambers  of  the  house  divine  were 
hidden.  As  I went  on  slowly,  the  perfection  of  the 
plan  of  the  dead  architects  was  gradually  revealed  to 

i 88 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  ED FU  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  THE  PYLON 


EDFU 


me,  when  the  darkness  gave  up  its  secrets  ; when  I saw 
not  clearly,  but  dimly,  the  long  way  between  the  col- 
umns, the  noble  columns  themselves,  the  gradual,  slight 
upward  slope, — graduated  by  genius  ; there  is  no  other 
word, — which  led  to  the  sanctuary,  seen  at  last  as  a 
little  darkness,  in  which  all  the  mystery  of  worship, 
and  of  the  silent  desires  of  men,  was  surely  con- 
centrated, and  kept  by  the  stone  forever.  Even  the 
succession  of  the  darknesses,  like  shadows  growing 
deeper  and  deeper,  seemed  planned  by  some  great  artist 
in  the  management  of  light,  and  so  of  shadow  effects. 
The  perfection  of  form  is  in  Edfu,  impossible  to  de- 
scribe, impossible  not  to  feel.  The  tremendous  effect 
it  has — an  effect  upon  the  soul — is  created  by  a com- 
bination of  shapes,  of  proportions,  of  different  levels, 
of  different  heights,  by  consummate  graduation.  And 
these  shapes,  proportions,  different  levels,  and  heights, 
are  seen  in  dimness.  Not  that  jeweled  dimness  one 
loves  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  but  the  heavy  dimness  of 
windowless,  mighty  chambers  lighted  only  by  a rebuked 
daylight  ever  trying  to  steal  in.  One  is  captured  by 
no  ornament,  seduced  by  no  lovely  colors.  Better  than 
any  ornament,  greater  than  any  radiant  glory  of  color, 
is  this  massive  austerity.  It  is  like  the  ultimate  in  an 
art.  Everything  has  been  tried,  every  strangeness, 
bizarrerie , absurdity,  every  wild  scheme  of  hues,  every 
preposterous  subject — to  take  an  extreme  instance,  a 
camel,  wearing  a top-hat,  and  lighted  up  by  fireworks, 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


which  I saw  recently  in  a picture-gallery  of  Munich. 
And  at  the  end  a genius  paints  a portrait  of  a wrinkled 
old  woman’s  face,  and  the  world  regards  and  worships. 
Or  all  discords  have  been  flung  together  pell-mell,  reso- 
lution of  them  has  been  deferred  perpetually,  perhaps 
even  denied  altogether,  chord  of  B major  has  been  struck 
with  C major,  works  have  closed  upon  the  leading  note 
or  the  dominant  seventh,  symphonies  have  been  com- 
posed to  be  played  in  the  dark,  or  to  be  accompanied 
by  a magic-lantern’s  efforts,  operas  been  produced 
which  are  merely  carnage  and  a row, — and  at  the  end 
a genius  writes  a little  song,  and  the  world  gives  the 
tribute  of  its  breathless  silence  and  its  tears.  And  it 
knows  that  though  other  things  may  be  done,  better 
things  can  never  be  done.  For  no  perfection  can  ex- 
ceed any  other  perfection. 

And  so  in  Edfu  I feel  that  this  untinted  austerity  is 
perfect;  that  whatever  may  be  done  in  architecture 
during  future  ages  of  the  world,  Edfu,  while  it  lasts, 
will  remain  a thing  supreme — supreme  in  form  and, 
because  of  this  supremacy,  supreme  in  the  spell  which 
it  casts  upon  the  soul. 

The  sanctuary  is  just  a small,  beautifully  propor- 
tioned, inmost  chamber,  with  a black  roof,  containing 
a sort  of  altar  of  granite,  and  a great  polished  granite 
shrine  which  no  doubt  once  contained  the  god  Horus. 
I am  glad  he  is  not  there  now.  Flow  far  more  im- 
pressive it  is  to  stand  in  an  empty  sanctuary,  in  the 

192 


THE  COURT,  TEMPLE  OF  EDFU 


EDFU 


house  divine  of  “the  Hidden  One,”  whom  the  nations 
of  the  earth  worship,  whether  they  spread  their  robes 
on  the  sand  and  turn  their  faces  to  Mecca,  or  beat  the 
tambourine  and  sing  “glory-hymns”  of  salvation,  or 
flagellate  themselves  in  the  night  before  the  patron  saint 
of  the  Passionists,  or  only  gaze  at  the  snow-white 
plume  that  floats  from  the  snows  of  Etna  under  the 
rose  of  dawn,  and  feel  the  soul  behind  Nature.  Among 
the  temples  of  Egypt,  Edfu  is  the  house  divine  of  “the 
Hidden  One,”  the  perfect  temple  of  worship. 


14 


*95 


XV 


KOM  OMBOS 

SOME  people  talk  of  the  “sameness”  of  the  Nile; 
and  there  is  a lovely  sameness  of  golden  light, 
of  delicious  air,  of  people,  and  of  scenery.  For 
Egypt  is,  after  all,  mainly  a great  river  with  strips  on 
each  side  of  cultivated  land,  flat,  green,  not  very  varied. 
River,  green  plains,  yellow  plains,  pink,  brown,  steel- 
gray,  or  pale-yellow  mountains,  wail  of  shadoof,  wail  of 
sakieh.  Yes,  I suppose  there  is  a sameness,  a sort  of 
golden  monotony,  in  this  land  pervaded  with  light  and 
pervaded  with  sound.  Always  there  is  light  around  you, 
and  you  are  bathing  in  it,  and  nearly  always,  if  you 
are  living,  as  I was,  on  the  water,  there  is  a multitude 
of  mingling  sounds  floating,  floating  to  your  ears.  As 
there  are  two  lines  of  green  land,  two  lines  of  moun- 
tains, following  the  course  of  the  Nile;  so  are  there 
two  lines  of  voices  that  cease  their  calling  and  their 
singing  only  as  you  draw  near  to  Nubia.  For  then, 
with  the  green  land,  they  fade  away,  these  miles  upon 
miles  of  calling  and  singing  brown  men;  and  amber 
and  ruddy  sands  creep  downward  to  the  Nile.  And 
the  air  seems  subtly  changing,  and  the  light  perhaps 

! 96 


From  a photograph  by  James  S Lee 


HYPOSTYLE  HALL,  KOM  OMBOS 


KOM  OMBOS 


growing  a little  harder.  And  you  are  aware  of  other 
regions  unlike  those  you  are  leaving,  more  African, 
more  savage,  less  suave,  less  like  a dreaming.  And 
especially  the  silence  makes  a great  impression  on  you. 
But  before  you  enter  this  silence,  between  the  amber 
and  ruddy  walls  that  will  lead  you  on  to  Nubia,  and  to 
the  land  of  the  crocodile,  you  have  a visit  to  pay.  For 
here,  high  up  on  a terrace,  looking  over  a great  bend 
of  the  river,  is  Kom  Ombos.  And  Kom  Ombos  is  the 
temple  of  the  crocodile  god. 

Sebek  was  one  of  the  oldest  and  one  of  the  most 
evil  of  the  Egyptian  gods.  In  the  Fayum  he  was 
worshiped,  as  well  as  at  Kom  Ombos,  and  there,  in  the 
holy  lake  of  his  temple,  were  numbers  of  holy  croco- 
diles, which  Strabo  tells  us  were  decorated  with  jewels 
like  pretty  women.  He  did  not  get  on  with  the  other 
gods,  and  was  sometimes  confused  with  Set,  who  per- 
sonified natural  darkness,  and  who  also  was  worshiped 
by  the  people  about  Kom  Ombos. 

I have  spoken  of  the  golden  sameness  of  the  Nile, 
but  this  sameness  is  broken  by  the  variety  of  the 
temples.  Here  you  have  a striking  instance  of  this 
variety.  Edfu,  only  forty  miles  from  Kom  Ombos,  the 
next  temple  which  you  visit,  is  the  most  perfect  temple 
in  Egypt.  Kom  Ombos  one  of  the  most  imperfect. 
Edfu  is  a divine  house  of  “the  Hidden  One,”  full  of  a 
sacred  atmosphere.  Kom  Ombos  is  the  house  of 
crocodiles.  In  ancient  days  the  inhabitants  of  Edfu 


199 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

* 

abhorred,  above  everything,  crocodiles  and  their 
worshipers.  And  here  at  Kom  Ombos  the  crocodile 
was  adored.  You  are  in  a different  atmosphere. 

As  soon  as  you  land,  you  are  greeted  with  crocodiles, 
though  fortunately  not  by  them.  A heap  of  their  black 
mummies  is  shown  to  you  reposing  in  a sort  of  tomb 
or  shrine  open  at  one  end  to  the  air.  By  these  mummies 
the  new  note  is  loudly  struck.  The  crocodiles  have 
carried  you  in  an  instant  from  that  which  is  pervad- 
ingly  general  to  that  which  is  narrowly  particular ; from 
the  purely  noble,  which  seems  to  belong  to  all  time,  to 
the  entirely  barbaric,  which  belongs  only  to  times  out- 
worn. It  is  difficult  to  feel  as  if  one  had  anything  in 
common  with  men  who  seriously  worshiped  crocodiles, 
had  priests  to  feed  them,  and  decorated  their  scaly 
necks  with  jewels. 

Yet  the  crocodile  god  had  a noble  temple  at  Kom 
Ombos,  a temple  which  dates  from  the  times  of  the 
Ptolemies,  though  there  was  a temple  in  earlier  days 
which  has  now  disappeared.  Its  situation  is  splendid. 
It  stands  high  above  the  Nile,  and  close  to  the  river,  on 
a terrace  which  has  recently  been  constructed  to  save 
it  from  the  encroachments  of  the  water.  And  it  looks 
down  upon  a view  which  is  exquisite  in  the  clear  light 
of  early  morning.  On  the  right,  and  far  off,  is  a de- 
licious pink  bareness  of  distant  flats  and  hills.  Op- 
posite there  is  a flood  of  verdure  and  of  trees  going  to 
mountains,  a spit  of  sand  where  is  an  inlet  of  the  river, 


200 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  KOM  OMBOS 


* 


KOM  OMBOS 


with  a crowd  of  native  boats,  perhaps  waiting  for  a 
wind.  On  the  left  is  the  big  bend  of  the  Nile,  singu- 
larly beautiful,  almost  voluptuous  in  form,  and  girdled 
with  a radiant  green  of  crops,  with  palm-trees,  and 
again  the  distant  hills.  Sebek  was  well  advised  to 
have  his  temples  here  and  in  the  glorious  Fayum,  that 
land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  where  the  air  is  full 
of  the  voices  of  the  flocks  and  herds,  and  alive  with 
the  wild  pigeons;  where  the  sweet  sugar-cane  towers 
up  in  fairy  forests,  the  beloved  home  of  the  jackal; 
where  the  green  corn  waves  to  the  horizon,  and  the 
runlets  of  water  make  a maze  of  silver  threads  carry- 
ing life  and  its  happy  murmur  through  all  the  vast  oasis. 

At  the  guardian’s  gate  by  which  you  go  in  there  sits 
not  a watch  dog,  nor  yet  a crocodile,  but  a watch  cat, 
small,  but  very  determined,  and  very  attentive  to  its 
duties,  and  neatly  carved  in  stone.  You  try  to  look 
like  a crocodile-worshiper.  It  is  deceived,  and  lets  you 
pass.  And  you  are  alone  with  the  growing  morning 
and  Kom  Ombos. 

I was  never  taken,  caught  up  into  an  atmosphere,  in 
Kom  Ombos.  I examined  it  with  interest,  but  I did 
not  feel  a spell.  Its  grandeur  is  great,  but  it  did  not 
affect  me  as  did  the  grandeur  of  Karnak.  Its  nobility 
cannot  be  questioned,  but  I did  not  stilly  rejoice  in  it, 
as  in  the  nobility  of  Luxor,  or  the  free  splendor  of  the 
Ramesseum. 

The  oldest  thing  at  Kom  Ombos  is  a gateway  of 

203 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

sandstone  placed  thereby  Thothmes  III  as  a tribute  to 
Sebek.  The  great  temple  is  of  a warm-brown  color, 
a very  rich  and  particularly  beautiful  brown,  that 
soothes  and  almost  comforts  the  eyes  that  have  been 
for  many  days  boldly  assaulted  by  the  sun.  Upon  the 
terrace  platform  above  the  river  you  face  a low  and 
ruined  wall,  on  which  there  are  some  lively  reliefs,  be- 
yond which  is  a large,  open  court  containing  a quantity 
of  stunted,  once  big  columns  standing  on  big  bases. 
Immediately  before  you  the  temple  towers  up,  very 
gigantic,  very  majestic,  with  a stone  pavement,  walls 
on  which  still  remain  some  traces  of  paintings,  and 
really  grand  columns,  enormous  in  size  and  in  good 
formation.  There  are  fine  architraves,  and  some  bits  of 
roofing,  but  the  greater  part  is  open  to  the  air.  Through 
a doorway  is  a second  hall  containing  columns  much 
less  noble,  and  beyond  this  one  walks  in  ruin,  among 
crumbled  or  partly  destroyed  chambers,  broken  statues, 
become  mere  slabs  of  granite  and  fallen  blocks  of 
stone.  At  the  end  is  a wall,  w'ith  a pavement  bordering 
it,  and  a row  of  chambers  that  look  like  monkish  cells, 
closed  by  small  doors.  At  Kom  Ombos  there  are  two 
sanctuaries,  one  dedicated  to  Sebek,  the  other  to  Heru- 
ur,  or  Haroeris,  a form  of  Horus  in  Egyptian  called  “the 
Elder,”  which  was  worshiped  with  Sebek  here  by  the 
admirers  of  crocodiles.  Each  of  them  contains  a ped- 
estal of  granite  upon  which  once  rested  a sacred  bark 
bearing  an  image  of  the  deity. 

204 


TEMPLE  OF  KOM  OMBOS.  SCREEN  WALL  OF 
HYPOSTYLE  HALL 


KOM  OMBOS 


There  are  some  fine  reliefs  scattered  through  these 
mighty  ruins,  showing  Sebek  with  the  head  of  a crocodile, 
Heru-ur  with  the  head  of  a hawk  so  characteristic  of 
Horus,  and  one  strange  animal  which  has  no  fewer 
than  four  heads,  apparently  meant  for  the  heads  of  lions. 
One  relief  which  I specially  noticed  for  its  life,  its 
charming  vivacity,  and  its  almost  amusing  fidelity  to 
details  unchanged  to-day,  depicts  a number  of  ducks 
in  full  flight  near  a mass  of  lotus  flowers.  I remem- 
bered it  one  day  in  the  Fayum,  so  intimately  associated 
with  Sebek,  when  I rode  twenty  miles  out  from  camp 
on  a dromedary  to  the  end  of  the  great  lake  of  Kurun, 
where  the  sand  wastes  of  the  Libyan  desert  stretch  to 
the  pale  and  waveless  waters  which,  that  day,  looked 
curiously  desolate  and  even  sinister  under  a low,  gray 
sky.  Beyond  the  wiry  tamarisk  bushes,  which  grow 
far  out  from  the  shore,  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
wild  duck  were  floating  as  far  as  the  eyes  could  see. 
We  took  a strange  native  boat,  manned  by  two  half- 
naked  fishermen,  and  were  rowed  with  big,  broad- 
bladed  oars  out  upon  the  silent  flood  that  the  silent 
desert  surrounded.  But  the  duck  were  too  wary  ever 
to  let  us  get  within  range  of  them.  As  we  drew  gently 
near,  they  rose  in  black  throngs,  and  skimmed  low  into 
the  distance  of  the  wintry  landscape,  trailing  their 
legs  behind  them,  like  the  duck  on  the  wall  of  Kom 
Ombos.  There  was  no  duck  for  dinner  in  camp  that 
night,  and  the  cook  was  inconsolable.  But  I had 

207 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


seen  a relief  come  to  life,  and  surmounted  my  dis- 
appointment. 

■Korn  Ombos  and  Edfu,  the  two  houses  of  the  lovers 
and  haters  of  crocodiles,  or  at  least  of  the  lovers  and 
the  haters  of  their  worship,  I shall  always  think  of  them 
together,  because  I drifted  on  the  Loulia  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  saw  no  interesting  temple  between  them,  and 
because  their  personalities  are  as  opposed  as  were, 
centuries  ago,  the  tenets  of  those  who  adored  within 
them.  The  Egyptians  of  old  were  devoted  to  the 
hunting  of  crocodiles,  which  once  abounded  in  the 
reaches  of  the  Nile  between  Assuan  and  Luxor,  and 
also  much  lower  down.  But  I believe  that  no  reliefs, 
or  paintings,  of  this  sport  are  to  be  found  upon  the 
walls  of  the  temples  and  the  tombs.  The  fear  of  Sebek, 
perhaps,  prevailed  even  over  the  dwellers  about  the 
temple  of  Edfu.  Yet  how  could  fear  of  any  crocodile 
god  infect  the  souls  of  those  who  were  privileged  to 
worship  in  such  a temple,  or  even  reverently  to  stand 
under  the  colonnade  within  the  court?  As  well,  per- 
haps, one  might  ask  how  men  could  be  inspired  to 
raise  such  a perfect  building  to  a deity  with  the  face  of 
a hawk?  But  Horus  was  not  the  god  of  crocodiles, 
but  a god  of  the  sun.  And  his  power  to  inspire  men 
must  have  been  vast ; for  the  greatest  conception  in 
stone  in  Egypt,  and,  I suppose,  in  the  whole  world, 
the  Sphinx,  as  De  Rouge  proved  by  an  inscription  at 
Edfu,  was  a representation  of  Horus  transformed  to 

208 


THE  ISLAND  OF  ELEPHANTINE,  FROM  ASSOUAN 


KOM  OMBOS 


conquer  Typhon.  The  Sphinx  and  Edfu!  For  such 
marvels  we  ought  to  bless  the  hawk-headed  god.  And 
if  we  forget  the  hawk,  which  one  meets  so  perpetually 
upon  the  walls  of  tombs  and  temples,  and  identify 
Horus  rather  with  the  Greek  Apollo,  the  yellow-haired 
god  of  the  sun,  driving  “westerly  all  day  in  his  flaming 
chariot,”  and  shooting  his  golden  arrows  at  the  happy 
world  beneath,  we  can  be  at  peace  with  those  dead 
Egyptians.  For  every  pilgrim  who  goes  to  Edfu  to- 
day is  surely  a worshiper  of  the  solar  aspect  of  Horus. 
As  long  as  the  world  lasts  there  will  be  sun-worship- 
ers. Every  brown  man  upon  the  Nile  is  one,  and 
every  good  American  who  crosses  the  ocean  and  comes 
at  last  into  the  somber  wonder  of  Edfu,  and  I was  one 
upon  the  deck  of  the  Loulia. 

And  we  all  worship  as  yet  in  the  dark,  as  in  the  ex- 
quisite dark,  like  faith,  of  the  Holy  of  Holies  of  Horus. 


15 


2 1 L 


XVI 


PHIL^E 

AS  I drew  slowly  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  home 
I % of  “the  great  Enchantress,”  or,  as  Isis  was 
-*•  also  called  in  bygone  days,  “ the  Lady  of 

Philae,”  the  land  began  to  change  in  character,  to  be  full 
of  a new  and  barbaric  meaning.  In  recent  years  I have 
paid  many  visits  to  northern  Africa,  but  only  to  Tunisia 
and  Algeria,  countries  that  are  wilder-looking,  and 
much  wilder-seeming,  than  Egypt.  Now,  as  I ap- 
proached Assuan,  I seemed  at  last  to  be  also  approach- 
ing the  real,  the  intense  Africa  that  I had  known  in  the 
Sahara,  the  enigmatic  siren,  savage  and  strange  and 
wonderful,  whom  the  typical  Ouled  Nail,  crowned  with 
gold,  and  tufted  with  ostrich  plumes,  painted  with  kohl, 
tattooed,  and  perfumed,  hung  with  golden  coins  and 
amulets,  and  framed  in  plaits  of  coarse,  false  hair,  rep- 
resents indifferently  to  the  eyes  of  the  traveling  stranger. 
For  at  last  I saw  the  sands  that  I love  creeping  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  And  they  brought  with  them 
that  wonderful  air  which  belongs  only  to  them  — the 
air  that  dwells  among  the  dunes  in  the  solitary  places, 
that  is  like  the  cool  touch  of  Liberty  upon  the  face  of  a 


2 12 


THE  ISLE  OF  PHILT;  BEFORE  THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF 

THE  DAM 


phil^e 


man,  that  makes  the  brown  child  of  the  nomad  as  lithe, 
tireless,  and  fierce-spirited  as  a young  panther,  and  sets 
flames  in  the  eyes  of  the  Arab  horse,  and  gives  speed 
of  the  wind  to  the  Sloughi.  The  true  lover  of  the 
desert  can  never  rid  his  soul  of  its  passion  for  the 
sands,  and  now  my  heart  leaped  as  I stole  into  their 
pure  embraces,  as  I saw  to  right  and  left  amber  curves 
and  sheeny  recesses,  shining  ridges  and  bloomy  clefts. 
The  clean  delicacy  of  those  sands  that,  in  long  and 
glowing  hills,  stretched  out  from  Nubia  to  meet  me, 
who  could  ever  describe  them?  Who  could  ever  de- 
scribe their  soft  and  enticing  shapes,  their  exquisite 
gradations  of  color,  the  little  shadows  in  their  hollows, 
the  fiery  beauty  of  their  crests,  the  patterns  the  cool 
winds  make  upon  them?  It  is  an  enchanted  royaume 
of  the  sands  through  which  one  approaches  Isis. 

Isis  and  engineers!  We  English  people  have  effected 
that  curious  introduction,  and  we  greatly  pride  our- 
selves upon  it.  We  have  presented  Sir  William  Gar- 
stin,  and  Mr.  John  Blue,  and  Mr.  Fitz  Maurice,  and 
other  clever,  hard-working  men  to  the  fabled  Lady  of 
Philas,  and  they  have  given  her  a gift : a dam  two  thou- 
sand yards  in  length,  upon  which  tourists  go  smiling 
on  trolleys.  Isis  has  her  expensive  tribute, — it  cost 
about  a million  and  a half  pounds, — and  no  doubt  she 
ought  to  be  gratified. 

Yet  I think  Isis  mourns  on  altered  Philas,  as  she 
mourns  with  her  sister,  Nepthys,  at  the  heads  of  so 

215 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


many  mummies  of  Osirians  upon  the  walls  of  Egyptian 
tombs.  And  though  the  fellaheen  very  rightly  rejoice, 
there  are  some  unpractical  sentimentalists  who  form  a 
company  about  her,  and  make  their  plaint  with  hers — 
their  plaint  for  the  peace  that  is  gone,  for  the  lost  calm, 
the  departed  poetry,  that  once  hung,  like  a delicious, 
like  an  inimitable,  atmosphere,  about  the  palms  of  the 
“ Holy  Island.” 

I confess  that  I dreaded  to  revisit  Philae.  I had 
sweet  memories  of  the  island  that  had  been  with  me 
for  many  years — memories  of  still  mornings  under  the 
palm-trees,  watching  the  gliding  waters  of  the  river,  or 
gazing  across  them  to  the  long  sweep  of  the  empty 
sands;  memories  of  drowsy,  golden  noons,  when  the 
bright  world  seemed  softly  sleeping,  and  the  almost 
daffodil-colored  temple  dreamed  under  the  quivering 
canopy  of  blue;  memories  of  evenings  when  a bene- 
diction from  the  lifted  hands  of  Romance  surely  fell 
upon  the  temple  and  the  island  and  the  river;  memories 
of  moonlit  nights,  when  the  spirits  of  the  old  gods  to 
whom  the  temples  were  reared  surely  held  converse 
with  the  spirits  of  the  desert,  with  Mirage  and  her  pale 
and  evading  sisters  of  the  great  spaces,  under  the  bril- 
liant stars.  I was  afraid,  because  I could  not  believe 
the  asseverations  of  certain  practical  persons,  full  of 
the  hard  and  almost  angry  desire  of  “Progress,”  that 
no  harm  had  been  done  by  the  creation  of  the  reservoir, 
but  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  had  benefited  the  temple. 

2 i 6 


THE  SACRED  ISLE  OF  PHIL/E 


PHIL  JE 


The  action  of  the  water  upon  the  stone,  they  said  with 
vehement  voices,  instead  of  loosening  it  and  causing  it 
to  crumble  untimely  away,  had  tended  to  harden  and 
consolidate  it.  Here  I should  like  to  lie,  but  I resist 
the  temptation.  Monsieur  Naville  has  stated  that  pos- 
sibly the  English  engineers  have  helped  to  prolong  the 
lives  of  the  buildings  of  Philae,  and  Monsieur  Maspero 
has  declared  that  “the  state  of  the  temple  of  Philae  be- 
comes continually  more  satisfactory.”  So  be  it!  Lon- 
gevity has  been,  by  a happy  chance,  secured.  But 
what  of  beauty  ? What  of  the  beauty  of  the  past,  and 
what  of  the  schemes  for  the  future?  Is  Philae  even  to 
be  left  as  it  is,  or  are  the  waters  of  the  Nile  to  be  arti- 
ficially raised  still  higher,  until  Philae  ceases  to  be? 
Soon,  no  doubt,  an  answer  will  be  given. 

Meanwhile,  instead  of  the  little  island  that  I knew, 
and  thought  a little  paradise  breathing  out  enchantment 
in  the  midst  of  titanic  sterility,  I found  a something 
diseased.  Philae  now,  when  out  of  the  water,  as  it 
was  all  the  time  when  I was  last  in  Egypt,  looks  like  a 
thing  stricken  with  some  creeping  malady — one  of 
those  maladies  which  begin  in  the  lower  members  of  a 
body,  and  work  their  way  gradually  but  inexorably 
upward  to  the  trunk,  until  they  attain  the  heart. 

I came  to  it  by  the  desert,  and  descended  to  Shellal 
— Shellal  with  its  railway-station,  its  workmen’s  build- 
ings, its  tents,  its  dozens  of  screens  to  protect  the 
hewers  of  stone  from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun,  its 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


bustle  of  people,  of  overseers,  engineers,  and  work- 
men, Egyptian,  Nubian,  Italian,  and  Greek.  The 
silence  I had  known  was  gone,  though  the  desert  lay 
all  around — the  great  sands,  the  great  masses  of  granite 
that  look  as  if  patiently  waiting  to  be  fashioned  into 
obelisks,  and  sarcophagi,  and  statues.  But  away  there 
across  the  bend  of  the  river,  dominating  the  ugly  rum- 
mage of  this  intrusive  beehive  of  human  bees,  sheer 
grace  overcoming  strength  both  of  nature  and  human 
nature,  rose  the  fabled  “Pharaoh’s  Bed”;  gracious, 
tender,  from  Shellal  most  delicately  perfect,  and  glow- 
ing with  pale  gold  against  the  grim  background  of  the 
hills  on  the  western  shore.  It  seemed  to  plead  for 
mercy,  like  something  feminine  threatened  with  outrage, 
to  protest  through  its  mere  beauty,  as  a woman  might 
protest  by  an  attitude,  against  further  desecration. 

And  in  the  distance  the  Nile  roared  through  the 
many  gates  of  the  dam,  making  answer  to  the  protest. 

What  irony  was  in  this  scene!  In  the  old  days  of 
Egypt  Philae  was  sacred  ground,  was  the  Nile-protected 
home  of  sacerdotal  mysteries,  was  a veritable  Mecca  to 
the  believers  in  Osiris,  to  which  it  was  forbidden  even  to 
draw  near  without  permission.  The  ancient  Egyptians 
swore  solemnly  “By  him  who  sleeps  in  Philae.”  Now 
they  sometimes  swear  angrily  at  him  who  wakes  in,  or 
at  least  by,  Philae,  and  keeps  them  steadily  going  at 
their  appointed  tasks.  And  instead  of  it  being  forbid- 
den to  draw  near  to  a sacred  spot,  needy  men  from 


2 20 


til 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  ISIS,  VHILJE 


phil^; 


foreign  countries  flock  thither  in  eager  crowds,  not  to 
worship  in  beauty,  but  to  earn  a living  wage. 

And  “Pharaoh’s  Bed’’  looks  out  over  the  water  and 
seems  to  wonder  what  will  be  the  end. 

I was  glad  to  escape  from  Shellal,  pursued  by  the 
shriek  of  an  engine  announcing  its  departure  from  the 
station,  glad  to  be  on  the  quiet  water,  to  put  it  between 
me  and  that  crowd  of  busy  workers.  Before  me  I saw 
a vast  lake,  not  unlovely,  where  once  the  Nile  flowed 
swiftly,  far  off  a gray  smudge  — the  very  damnable 
dam.  All  around  me  was  a grim  and  cruel  world  of 
rocks,  and  of  hills  that  look  almost  like  heaps  of  rub- 
bish, some  of  them  gray,  some  of  them  in  color  so  dark 
that  they  resemble  the  lava  torrents  petrified  near 
Catania,  or  the  “black  country”  in  England  through 
which  one  rushes  on  one’s  way  to  the  North.  Just 
here  and  there,  sweetly  almost  as  the  pink  blossoms  of 
the  wild  oleander,  which  I have  seen  from  Sicilian  seas 
lifting  their  heads  from  the  crevices  of  sea  rocks,  the 
amber  and  rosy  sands  of  Nubia  smiled  down  over  grit 
stone  and  granite. 

The  setting  of  Philae  is  severe.  Even  in  bright  sun- 
shine it  has  an  iron  look.  On  a gray  or  stormy  day  it 
would  be  forbidding  or  even  terrible.  In  the  old  win- 
ters and  springs  one  loved  Philae  the  more  because  of 
the  contrast  of  its  setting  with  its  own  lyrical  beauty, 
its  curious  tenderness  of  charm — a charm  in  which  the 
isle  itself  was  mingled  with  its  buildings.  But  now, 

223 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


and  before  my  boat  had  touched  the  quay,  I saw  that 
the  island  must  be  ignored — if  possible. 

The  water  with  which  it  is  entirely  covered  during  a 
great  part  of  the  year  seems  to  have  cast  a blight  upon 
it.  The  very  few  palms  have  a drooping  and  tragic 
air.  The  ground  has  a gangrened  appearance,  and 
much  of  it  shows  a crawling  mass  of  unwholesome- 
looking  plants,  which  seem  crouching  down  as  if 
ashamed  of  their  brutal  exposure  by  the  receded  river, 
and  of  harsh  and  yellow-green  grass,  unattractive  to 
the  eyes.  As  I stepped  on  shore  I felt  as  if  I were 
stepping  on  disease.  But  at  least  there  were  the  build- 
ings undisturbed  by  any  outrage.  Again  I turned 
toward  “ Pharaoh’s  Bed,”  toward  the  temple  standing 
apart  from  it,  which  already  I had  seen  from  the  desert, 
near  Shellal,  gleaming  with  its  gracious  sand-yellow, 
lifting  its  series  of  straight  lines  of  masonry  above  the 
river  and  the  rocks,  looking,  from  a distance,  very 
simple,  with  a simplicity  like  that  of  clear  water,  but  as 
enticing  as  the  light  on  the  first  real  day  of  spring. 

I went  first  to  “ Pharaoh’s  Bed.” 

Imagine  a woman  with  a perfectly  lovely  face,  with 
features  as  exquisitely  proportioned  as  those,  say,  of 
Praxiteles's  statue  of  the  Cnidian  Aphrodite,  for  which 
King  Nicomedes  was  willing  to  remit  the  entire  national 
debt  of  Cnidus,  and  with  a warmly  white  rose-leaf  com- 
plexion—one  of  those  complexions  one  sometimes  sees 
in  Italian  women,  colorless,  yet  suggestive  almost  of  glow, 


NEARLY  SUBMERGED  COLUMNS,  ISLE  OF  PHILMi 


phil^: 


of  purity,  with  the  flame  of  passion  behind  it.  Imagine 
that  woman  attacked  by  a malady  which  leaves  her  fea- 
tures exactly  as  they  were,  but  which  changes  the  color 
of  her  face — from  the  throat  upward  to  just  beneath  the 
nose — from  the  warm  white  to  a mottled,  grayish  hue. 
Imagine  the  line  that  would  seem  to  be  traced  between 
the  two  complexions — the  mottled  gray  below  the 
warm  white  still  glowing  above.  Imagine  this,  and  you 
have  “ Pharaoh’s  Bed  ” and  the  temple  of  Philae  as  they 
are  to-day. 


XVII 


“PHARAOH’S  BED” 

PHARAOH’S  BED,”  which  stands  alone  close  to 
the  Nile  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  island,  is  not 
one  of  those  rugged,  majestic  buildings,  full  of 
grandeur  and  splendor,  which  can  bear,  can  “carry  off,” 
as  it  were,  a cruelly  imposed  ugliness  without  being  af- 
fected as  a whole.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a small,  almost 
an  airy,  and  a femininely  perfect  thing,  in  which  a singu- 
lar loveliness  of  form  was  combined  with  a singular 
loveliness  of  color.  The  spell  it  threw  over  you  was  not 
so  much  a spell  woven  of  details  as  a spell  woven  of 
divine  uniformity.  To  put  it  in  very  practical  language, 
“Pharaoh’s  Bed  ” was  “ all  of  a piece.”  The  form  was 
married  to  the  color.  The  color  seemed  to  melt  into  the 
form.  It  was  indeed  a bed  in  which  the  soul  that  wor- 
ships beauty  could  rest  happily  entranced.  Nothing 
jarred.  Antiquaries  say  that  apparently  this  building 
was  left  unfinished.  That  may  be  so.  But  for  all  that 
it  was  one  of  the  most  finished  things  in  Egypt,  essen- 
tially a thing  to  inspire  within  one  the  “ perfect  calm 
that  is  Greek.”  The  blighting  touch  of  the  Nile,  which 
has  changed  the  beautiful  pale  yellow  of  the  stone  of 

228 


PHARAOH’S  BED,  BEFORE  THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DAM 


“ PHARAOH’S  BED” 


the  lower  part  of  the  building  to  a hideous  and  dreary 
gray, — which  made  me  think  of  a steel  knife  on  which 
liquid  has  been  spilt  and  allowed  to  run, — has  destroyed 
the  uniformity,  the  balance,  the  faultless  melody  lifted 
up  by  form  and  color.  And  so  it  is  with  the  temple. 
It  is  as  it  were  cut  in  two  by  the  intrusion  into  it  of  this 
hideous,  mottled  complexion  left  by  the  receded  water. 
Everywhere  one  sees  disease  on  walls  and  columns, 
almost  blotting  out  bas-reliefs,  giving  to  their  active 
figures  a morbid,  a sickly  look.  The  effect  is  specially 
distressing  in  the  open  court  that  precedes  the  temple 
dedicated  to  the  Lady  of  Philae.  In  this  court,  which 
is  at  the  southern  end  of  the  island,  the  Nile  at  certain 
seasons  is  now  forced  to  rise  very  nearly  as  high  as  the 
capitals  of  many  of  the  columns.  The  consequence  of 
this  is  that  here  the  disease  seems  making  rapid  strides. 
One  feels  it  is  drawing  near  to  the  heart,  and  that  the 
poor,  doomed  invalid  may  collapse  at  any  moment. 

Yes,  there  is  much  to  make  one  sad  at  Philae.  But 
how  much  of  pure  beauty  there  is  left  — of  beauty  that 
mutely  protests  against  any  further  outrage  ! 

As  there  is  something  epic  in  the  grandeur  of  the 
Lotus  Hall  at  Karnak,  so  there  is  something  lyrical  in 
the  soft  charm  of  the  Philae  temple.  Certain  things  or 
places,  certain  things  in  certain  places,  always  suggest 
to  my  mind  certain  people  in  whose  genius  I take  de- 
light— who  have  won  me,  and  moved  me  by  their  art. 
Whenever  I go  to  Philae,  the  name  of  Shelley  comes  to 

231 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


me.  I scarcely  could  tell  why.  I have  no  special 
reason  to  connect  Shelley  with  Philae.  But  when  I see 
that  almost  airy  loveliness  of  stone,  so  simply  elegant, 
so,  somehow,  spring-like  in  its  pale-colored  beauty,  its 
happy,  daffodil  charm,  with  its  touch  of  the  Greek, — 
the  sensitive  hand  from  Attica  stretched  out  over 
Nubia, — I always  think  of  Shelley.  I think  of  Shelley 
the  youth  who  dived  down  into  the  pool  so  deep  that 
it  seemed  he  was  lost  forever  to  the  sun.  I think  of 
Shelley  the  poet,  full  of  a lyric  ecstasy,  who  was  himself 
like  an  embodied 

Longing  for  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 

Lyrical  Philae  is  like  a temple  of  dreams,  and  of  all 
poets  Shelley  might  have  dreamed  the  dream,  and  have 
told  it  to  the  world  in  a song. 

For  all  its  solidity,  there  are  a strange  lightness  and 
grace  in  the  temple  of  Philae;  there  is  an  elegance  you 
will  not  find  in  the  other  temples  of  Egypt.  But  it  is 
an  elegance  quite  undefiled  by  weakness,  by  any  senti- 
mentality. (Even  a building,  like  a love-lorn  maid,  can 
be  sentimental.)  Edward  Fitzgerald  once  defined  taste 
as  the  feminine  of  genius.  Taste  prevails  in  Philae,  a 
certain  delicious  femininity  that  seduces  the  eyes  and 
the  heart  of  man.  Shall  we  call  it  the  spirit  of  Isis? 

I have  heard  a clever  critic  and  antiquarian  declare 
that  he  is  not  very  fond  of  Philae ; that  he  feels  a cer- 

232 


PHARAOH’S  BED,”  ISLAND  OF  PHIL.® 


“ PHARAOH’S  BED” 


tain  “spuriousness”  in  the  temple  due  to  the  mingling 
of  Greek  with  Egyptian  influences.  He  may  be  right. 
I am  no  antiquarian,  and,  as  a mere  lover  of  beauty,  I 
do  not  feel  this  “spuriousness.”  I can  see  neither  two 
quarreling  strengths  nor  any  weakness  caused  by  di- 
vision. I suppose  I see  only  the  beauty,  as  I might 
see  only  the  beauty  of  a woman  bred  of  a handsome 
father  and  mother  of  different  races,  and  who,  not 
typical  of  either,  combined  in  her  features  and  figure 
distinguishing  merits  of  both.  It  is  true  that  there  is  a 
particular  pleasure  which  is  roused  in  us  only  by  the  ab- 
solutely typical  — the  completely  thoroughbred  person 
or  thing.  It  may  be  a pleasure  not  caused  by  beauty, 
and  it  may  be  very  keen,  nevertheless.  When  it  is 
combined  with  the  joy  roused  in  us  by  all  beauty,  it  is  a 
very  pure  emotion  of  exceptional  delight.  Philae  does 
not,  perhaps,  give  this  emotion.  But  it  certainly  has  a 
lovableness  that  attaches  the  heart  in  a quite  singular 
degree.  The  Philae-lover  is  the  most  faithful  of  lovers. 
The  hold  of  his  mistress  upon  him,  once  it  has  been 
felt,  is  never  relaxed.  And  in  his  affection  for  Philae 
there  is,  I think,  nearly  always  a rainbow  strain  of 
romance. 

When  we  love  anything,  we  love  to  be  able  to  say 
of  the  object  of  our  devotion,  “There  is  nothing  like 
it.”  Now,  in  all  Egypt,  and  I suppose  in  all  the  world, 
there  is  nothing  just  like  Philae.  There  are  temples, 
yes ; but  where  else  is  there  a bouquet  of  gracious 

2 35 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


buildings  such  as  these  gathered  in  such  a holder  as 
this  tiny,  raft-like  isle?  And  where  else  are  just  such 
delicate  and,  as  I have  said,  light  and  almost  feminine 
elegance  and  charm  set  in  the  midst  of  such  severe 
sterility?  Once,  beyond  Philae,  the  Great  Cataract 
roared  down  from  the  wastes  of  Nubia  into  the  green 
fertility  of  Upper  Egypt.  It  roars  no  longer.  But 
still  the  masses  of  the  rocks,  and  still  the  amber  and 
the  yellow  sands,  and  still  the  iron-colored  hills,  keep 
guard  round  Philae.  And  still,  despite  the  vulgar  des- 
ecration that  has  turned  Shellal  into  a workmen’s 
suburb  and  dowered  it  with  a railway-station,  there  is 
mystery  in  Philae,  and  the  sense  of  isolation  that  only 
an  island  gives.  Even  now  one  can  forget  in  Philae — 
forget,  after  a while,  and  in  certain  parts  of  its  buildings, 
the  presence  of  the  gray  disease  ; forget  the  threatening 
of  the  altruists,  who  desire  to  benefit  humanity  by 
clearing  as  much  beauty  out  of  humanity’s  abiding- 
place  as  possible ; forget  the  fact  of  the  railway,  except 
when  the  shriek  of  the  engine  floats  over  the  water  to 
one’s  ears  ; forget  economic  problems,  and  the  destruc- 
tion that  their  solving  brings  upon  the  silent  world  of 
things  whose  “use,”  denied,  unrecognized,  or  laughed 
at,  to  man  is  in  their  holy  beauty,  whose  mission  lies 
not  upon  the  broad  highways  where  tramps  the  hungry 
body,  but  upon  the  secret,  shadowy  byways  where 
glides  the  hungry  soul. 

Yes,  one  can  forget  even  now  in  the  hall  of  the  tem- 

236 


From  a photograph  by  James  S.  Lee 


IN  “PHARAOH’S  BED,”  ISLAND  OF  PHIL^ 


“PHARAOH’S  BED” 


pie  of  Isis,  where  the  capricious  graces  of  form  are 
linked  with  the  capricious  graces  of  color,  where,  like 
old  and  delicious  music  in  the  golden  strings  of  a harp, 
dwells  a something — what  is  it?  A murmur,  or  a per- 
fume, or  a breathing? — of  old  and  vanished  years 
when  forsakened  gods  were  worshiped.  And  one  can 
forget  in  the  chapel  of  Hathor,  on  whose  wall  little 
Horus  is  born,  and  in  the  gray  hounds’  chapel  beside 
it.  One  can  forget,  for  one  walks  in  beauty. 

Lovely  are  the  doorways  in  Philae ; enticing  are  the 
shallow  steps  that  lead  one  onward  and  upward ; gra- 
cious the  yellow  towers  that  seem  to  smile  a quiet  wel- 
come. And  there  is  one  chamber  that  is  simply  a place 
of  magic — the  hall  of  the  painted  portico,  the  delicious 
hall  of  the  flowers. 

It  is  this  chamber  which  always  makes  me  think  of 
Philae  as  a lovely  temple  of  dreams,  this  silent,  retired 
chamber,  where  some  fabled  princess  might  well  have 
been  touched  to  a long,  long  sleep  of  enchantment,  and 
lain  for  years  upon  years  among  the  magical  flowers  — 
the  lotus,  and  the  palm,  and  the  papyrus. 

In  my  youth  it  made  upon  me  an  indelible  impres- 
sion. Through  intervening  years,  filled  with  many  new 
impressions,  many  wanderings,  many  visions  of  beauty 
in  other  lands,  that  retired,  painted  chamber  had  not 
faded  from  my  mind  — or  shall  I say  from  my  heart? 
There  had  seemed  to  me  within  it  something  that  was 
ineffable,  as  in  a lyric  of  Shelley’s  there  is  something 

2 39 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


that  is  ineffable,  or  in  certain  pictures  of  Boecklin,  such 
as  “The  Villa  by  the  Sea.”  And  when  at  last,  almost 
afraid  and  hesitating,  I came  into  it  once  more,  I found 
in  it  again  the  strange  spell  of  old  enchantment. 

It  seems  as  if  this  chamber  had  been  imagined  by  a 
poet,  who  had  set  it  in  the  center  of  the  temple  of  his 
dream.  It  is  such  a spontaneous  chamber  that  one  can 
scarcely  imagine  it  more  than  a day  and  a night  in  the 
building.  Yet  in  detail  it  is  lovely;  it  is  finished  and 
strangely  mighty  ; it  is  a lyric  in  stone,  the  most  poeti- 
cal chamber,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  of  Egypt.  For 
Philae  I count  in  Egypt,  though  really  it  is  in  Nubia. 

One  who  has  not  seen  Philae  may  perhaps  wonder 
how  a tall  chamber  of  solid  stone,  containing  heavy  and 
soaring  columns,  can  be  like  a lyric  of  Shelley’s,  can  be 
exquisitely  spontaneous,  and  yet  hold  a something  of 
mystery  that  makes  one  tread  softly  in  it,  and  fear  to 
disturb  within  it  some  lovely  sleeper  of  Nubia,  some 
Princess  of  the  Nile.  He  must  continue  to  wonder. 
To  describe  this  chamber  calmly,  as  I might,  for  in- 
stance, describe  the  temple  of  Derr,  would  be  simply  to 
destroy  it.  For  things  ineffable  cannot  be  fully  ex- 
plained, or  not  be  fully  felt  by  those  the  twilight  of 
whose  dreams  is  fitted  to  mingle  with  their  twilight. 
They  who  are  meant  to  love  with  ardor  se  passionnent 
pour  la  passion.  And  they  who  are  meant  to  take  and 
to  keep  the  spirit  of  a dream,  whether  it  be  hidden  in  a 
poem,  or  held  in  the  cup  of  a flower,  or  enfolded  in 

240 


FORK-COURT  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  ISIS  AND  “PHARAOH’S 

BED,”  PHI  LAE 


“ PHARAOH’S  BED” 


arms  of  stone,  will  surely  never  miss  it,  even  though 
they  can  hear  roaring  loudly  above  its  elfin  voice  the 
cry  of  directed  waters  rushing  down  to  Upper  Egypt. 

How  can  one  disentangle  from  their  tapestry  web  the 
different  threads  of  a spell?  And  even  if  one  could,  if 
one  could  hold  them  up,  and  explain,  “The  cause  of  the 
spell  is  that  this  comes  in  contact  with  this,  and  that 
this,  which  I show  you,  blends  with,  fades  into,  this,” 
how  could  it  advantage  any  one?  Nothing  would  be 
made  clearer,  nothing  be  really  explained.  The  in- 
effable is,  and  must  ever  remain,  something  remote  and 
mysterious. 

And  so  one  may  say  many  things  of  this  painted 
chamber  of  Philae,  and  yet  never  convey,  perhaps  never 
really  know,  the  innermost  cause  of  its  charm.  In  it 
there  is  obvious  beauty  of  form,  and  a seizing  beauty 
of  color,  beauty  of  sunlight  and  shadow,  of  antique 
association.  This  turquoise  blue  is  enchanting,  and 
Isis  was  worshiped  here.  What  has  the  one  to  do  with 
the  other?  Nothing;  and  yet  how  much!  For  is  not 
each  of  these  facts  a thread  in  the  tapestry  web  of  the 
spell  ? The  eyes  see  the  rapture  of  this  very  perfect 
blue.  The  imagination  hears,  as  if  very  far  off,  the 
solemn  chanting  of  priests,  and  smells  the  smoke  of 
strange  perfumes,  and  sees  the  long,  aquiline  nose  and 
the  thin,  haughty  lips  of  the  goddess.  And  the  color 
becomes  strange  to  the  eyes,  as  well  as  very  lovely,  be- 
cause, perhaps,  it  was  there — it  almost  certainly  was 


17 


243 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


there — when  from  Constantinople  went  forth  the  de- 
cree that  all  Egypt  should  be  Christian ; when  the 
priests  of  the  sacred  brotherhood  of  Isis  were  driven 
from  their  temple. 

Isis  nursing  Horus  gave  way  to  the  Virgin  and  the 
child.  But  the  cycles  spin  away  down  “ the  ringing 
grooves  of  change.”  From  Egypt  has  passed  away 
that  decreed  Christianity.  Now  from  the  minaret  the 
muezzin  cries,  and  in  palm-shaded  villages  I hear  the 
loud  hymns  of  earnest  pilgrims  starting  on  the  journey 
to  Mecca.  And  ever  this  painted  chamber  shelters  its 
mystery  of  poetry,  its  mystery  of  charm.  And  still  its 
marvelous  colors  are  fresh  as  in  the  far-off  pagan  days, 
and  the  opening  lotus-flowers,  and  the  closed  lotus- 
buds,  and  the  palm  and  the  papyrus,  are  on  the  perfect 
columns.  And  their  intrinsic  loveliness,  and  their 
freshness,  and  their  age,  and  the  mysteries  they  have 
looked  on — all  these  facts  are  part  of  the  spell  that  gov- 
erns us  to-day.  In  Edfu  one  is  inclosed  in  a won- 
derful austerity.  And  one  can  only  worship.  In  Philae 
one  is  wrapped  in  a radiance  of  color.  And  one  can 
only  dream.  For  there  is  coral  pink,  and  there  a won- 
derful green,  “ like  the  green  light  that  lingers  in  the 
west,”  and  there  is  a blue  as  deep  as  the  blue  of  a 
tropical  sea;  and  there  are  green-blue  and  lustrous, 
ardent  red.  And  the  odd  fantasy  in  the  coloring,  is 
not  that  like  the  fantasy  in  the  temple  of  a dream?  For 
those  who  painted  these  capitals  for  the  greater  glory 

244 


ABU-SIMBEL 


“ PHARAOH’S  BED” 


of  Isis  did  not  fear  to  depart  from  nature,  and  to  their 
patient  worship  a blue  palm  perhaps  seemed  a rarely 
sacred  thing.  And  that  palm  is  part  of  the  spell,  and 
the  reliefs  upon  the  walls,  and  even  the  Coptic  crosses 
that  are  cut  into  the  stone. 

But,  at  the  end,  one  can  only  say  that  this  place  is 
indescribable,  and  not  because  it  is  complex  or  ter- 
rifically grand,  like  Karnak.  Go  to  it  on  a sunlit  morn- 
ing, or  stand  in  it  in  late  afternoon,  and  perhaps  you 
will  feel  that  it  “ suggests  ” you,  that  it  carries  you 
away,  out  of  familiar  regions  into  a land  of  dreams, 
where  among  hidden  ways  the  soul  is  lost  in  magic. 
Yes,  you  are  gone. 

To  the  right — for  one,  alas  ! cannot  live  in  a dream 
forever — is  a lovely  doorway  through  which  one  sees 
the  river.  Facing  it  is  another  doorway,  showing  a 
fragment  of  the  poor,  vivisected  island,  some  ruined 
walls,  and  still  another  doorway  in  which,  again,  is 
framed  the  Nile.  Many  people  have  cut  their  names 
upon  the  walls  of  Philae.  Once,  as  I sat  alone  there,  I 
felt  strongly  attracted  to  look  upward  to  a wall,  as  if 
some  personality,  enshrined  within  the  stone,  were 
watching  me,  or  calling.  I looked,  and  saw  written 
“ Balzac.” 

Philae  is  the  last  temple  that  one  visits  before  he 
gives  himself  to  the  wildness  of  the  solitudes  of 
Nubia.  It  stands  at  the  very  frontier.  As  one  goes 
up  the  Nile,  it  is  like  a smiling  adieu  from  the  Egypt 

247 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


one  is  leaving.  As  one  comes  down,  it  is  like  a smiling 
welcome.  In  its  delicate  charm  I feel  something  of  the 
charm  of  the  Egyptian  character.  There  are  moments, 
indeed,  when  I identify  Egypt  with  Philae.  For  in 
Philae  one  must  dream  ; and  on  the  Nile,  too,  one  must 
dream.  And  always  the  dream  is  happy,  and  shot 
through  with  radiant  light — light  that  is  as  radiant  as 
the  colors  in  Philae’s  temple.  The  pylons  of  Ptolemy 
smile  at  you  as  you  go  up  or  come  down  the  river. 
And  the  people  of  Egypt  smile  as  they  enter  into  your 
dream.  A suavity,  too,  is  theirs.  I think  of  them  often 
as  artists,  who  know  their  parts  in  the  dream-play,  who 
know  exactly  their  function,  and  how  to  fulfil  it  rightly. 
They  sing,  while  you  are  dreaming,  but  it  is  an  under- 
song, like  the  murmur  of  an  Eastern  river  far  off  from 
any  sea.  It  never  disturbs,  this  music,  but  it  helps  you 
in  your  dream.  And  they  are  softly  gay.  And  in 
their  eyes  there  is  often  the  gleam  of  sunshine,  for  they 
are  the  children — but  not  grown  men  — of  the  sun. 
That,  indeed,  is  one  of  the  many  strange  things  in 
Egypt  — the  youthfulness  of  its  age,  the  childlikeness 
of  its  almost  terrible  antiquity.  One  goes  there  to  look 
at  the  oldest  things  in  the  world  and  to  feel  perpetually 
young  — young  as  Philae  is  young,  as  a lyric  of  Shel- 
ley’s is  young,  as  all  of  our  day-dreams  are  young,  as 
the  people  of  Egypt  are  young. 

Oh,  that  Egypt  could  be  kept  as  it  is,  even  as  it  is 
now;  that  Philae  could  be  preserved  even  as  it  is  now ! 


ABU-SIMBEL  FROM  THE  RIVER 


“ PHARAOH’S  BED  ” 

The  spoilers  are  there,  those  blithe  modern  spirits,  so 
frightfully  clever  and  capable,  so  industrious,  so  de- 
termined, so  unsparing  of  themselves  and — of  others! 
Already  they  are  at  work  “benefiting  Egypt.”  Tall 
chimneys  begin  to  vomit  smoke  along  the  Nile.  A 
damnable  tram-line  for  little  trolleys  leads  one  toward 
the  wonderful  Colossi  of  Memnon.  Close  to  Kom  Om- 
bos  some  soul  imbued  with  romance  has  had  the  inspi- 
ration to  set  up — a factory.  And  Philae — is  it  to  go? 

Is  beauty,  then,  of  no  value  in  the  world?  Is  it  al- 
ways to  be  the  prey  of  modern  progress  ? Is  nothing 
to  be  considered  sacred;  nothing  to  be  left  untouched, 
unsmirched  by  the  grimy  fingers  of  improvement?  I 
suppose  nothing. 

Then  let  those  who  still  care  to  dream  go  now  to 
Philae’s  painted  chamber  by  the  long  reaches  of  the 
Nile;  go  on,  if  they  will,  to  the  giant  forms  of  Abu- 
Simbel  among  the  Nubian  sands.  And  perhaps  they 
will  think  with  me,  that  in  some  dreams  there  is  a value 
greater  than  the  value  that  is  entered  in  any  bank-book, 
and  they  will  say,  with  me,  however  uselessly : 

“ Leave  to  the  world  some  dreams,  some  places  in 
which  to  dream  ; for  if  it  needs  dams  to  make  the  grain 
grow  in  the  stretches  of  land  that  were  barren,  and  rail- 
ways, and  tram-lines,  and  factory  chimneys  that  vomit 
black  smoke  in  the  face  of  the  sun,  surely  it  needs  also 
painted  chambers  of  Philae  and  the  silence  that  comes 
down  from  Isis.” 


251 


XVIII 


OLD  CAIRO 

BY  old  Cairo  I do  not  mean  only  “le  vieux  Caire” 
k of  the  guide-book,  the  little,  desolate  village 
containing  the  famous  Coptic  church  of  Abu  Ser- 
gius, in  the  crypt  of  which  the  Virgin  Mary  and  Christ  are 
said  to  have  stayed  when  they  fled  to  the  land  of  Egypt 
to  escape  the  fury  of  King  Herod;  but  the  Cairo  that 
is  not  new,  that  is  not  dedicated  wholly  to  officialdom 
and  tourists,  that,  in  the  midst  of  changes  and  the  ad- 
vance of  civilization, — civilization  that  does  so  much 
harm  as  well  as  so  much  good,  that  showers  benefits 
with  one  hand  and  defaces  beauty  with  the  other, — pre- 
serves its  immemorial  calm  or  immemorial  tumult;  that 
stands  aloof,  as  stands  aloof  ever  the  Eastern  from  the 
Western  man,  even  in  the  midst  of  what  seems,  perhaps, 
like  intimacy  ; Eastern  to  the  soul,  though  the  fantasies, 
the  passions,  the  vulgarities,  the  brilliant  ineptitudes  of 
the  West,  beat  about  it  like  waves  about  some  unyield- 
ing wall  of  the  sea. 

When  I went  back  to  Egypt,  after  a lapse  of  many 
years,  I fled  at  once  from  Cairo,  and  upon  the  long 
reaches  of  the  Nile,  in  the  great  spaces  of  the  Libyan 

252 


OLD  CAIRO 


Desert,  in  the  luxuriant  palm-groves  of  the  Fayyum, 
among  the  tamarisk-bushes  and  on  the  pale  waters  of 
Kurun,  I forgot  the  changes  which,  in  my  brief  glimpse 
of  the  city  and  its  environs,  had  moved  me  to  despon- 
dency. But  one  cannot  live  in  the  solitudes  forever. 
And  at  last  from  Madi-nat-al- Fayyum,  with  the  first 
pilgrims  starting  for  Mecca,  I returned  to  the  great  city, 
determined  to  seek  in  it  once  more  for  the  fascinations 
it  used  to  hold,  and  perhaps  still  held  in  the  hidden 
ways  where  modern  feet,  nearly  always  in  a hurry,  had 
seldom  time  to  penetrate. 

A mist  hung  over  the  land.  Out  of  it,  with  a sort  of 
stern  energy,  there  came  to  my  ears  loud  hymns  sung 
by  the  pilgrim  voices  — hymns  in  which,  mingled  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  devotees  en  route  for  the  holiest  shrine 
of  their  faith,  there  seemed  to  sound  the  resolution  of 
men  strung  up  to  confront  the  fatigues  and  the  dangers 
of  a great  journey  through  a wild  and  unknown  country. 
Those  hymns  led  my  feet  to  the  venerable  mosques 
of  Cairo,  the  city  of  mosques,  guided  me  on  my  les- 
ser pilgrimage  among  the  cupolas  and  the  colonnades, 
where  grave  men  dream  in  the  silence  near  marble 
fountains,  or  bend  muttering  their  prayers  beneath 
domes  that  are  dimmed  by  the  ruthless  fingers  of  Time. 
In  the  buildings  consecrated  to  prayer  and  to  medita- 
tion I first  sought  for  the  magic  that  stills  lurks  in  the 
teeming  bosom  of  Cairo. 

Long  ago  I had  sought  it  elsewhere,  in  the  brilliant 

253 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


bazaars  by  day,  and  by  night  in  the  winding  alleys, 
where  the  dark-eyed  Jews  looked  stealthily  forth  from 
the  low-browed  doorways  ; where  the  Circassian  girls 
promenade,  gleaming  with  golden  coins  and  barbaric 
jewels  ; where  the  air  is  alive  with  music  that  is  feverish 
and  antique,  and  in  strangely  lighted  interiors  one  sees 
forms  clad  in  brilliant  draperies,  or  severely  draped  in 
the  simplest  pale-blue  garments,  moving  in  languid 
dances,  fluttering  painted  fingers,  bending,  swaying, 
dropping  down,  like  the  forms  that  people  a dream. 

In  the  bazaars  is  the  passion  for  gain,  in  the  alleys 
of  music  and  light  is  the  passion  for  pleasure,  in  the 
mosques  is  the  passion  for  prayer  that  connects  the  souls 
of  men  with  the  unseen  but  strongly  felt  world.  Each 
of  these  passions  is  old,  each  of  these  passions  in  the 
heart  of  Islam  is  fierce.  On  my  return  to  Cairo  I 
sought  for  the  hidden  fire  that  is  magic  in  the  dusky 
places  of  prayer. 

A mist  lay  over  the  city  as  I stood  in  a narrow  byway, 
and  gazed  up  at  a heavy  lattice,  of  which  the  decayed 
and  blackened  wood  seemed  on  guard  before  some 
tragic  or  weary  secret.  Before  me  was  the  entrance  to 
the  mosque  of  Ibn-Tulun,  older  than  any  mosque  in 
Cairo  save  only  the  mosque  of  Amru.  It  is  approached 
by  a flight  of  steps,  on  each  side  of  which  stand  old, 
impenetrable  houses.  Above  my  head,  strung  across 
from  one  house  to  the  other,  were  many  little  red  and 
yellow  flags  ornamented  with  gold  lozenges.  These 

2 54 


OLD  CAIRO 


were  to  bear  witness  that  in  a couple  of  days’  time,  from 
the  great  open  place  beneath  the  citadel  of  Cairo,  the 
Sacred  Carpet  was  to  set  out  on  its  long  journey  to 
Mecca.  My  guide  struck  on  a door  and  uttered  a fierce 
cry.  A small  shutter  in  the  blackened  lattice  was 
opened,  and  a young  girl,  with  kohl-tinted  eyelids,  and 
a brilliant  yellow  handkerchief  tied  over  her  coarse, 
black  hair,  leaned  out,  held  a short  parley,  and  vanished, 
drawing  the  shutter  to  behind  her.  The  mist  crept  up 
about  the  tawdry  flags,  a heavy  door  creaked,  whined 
on  its  hinges,  and  from  the  house  of  the  girl  there  came 
an  old,  fat  man  bearing  a mighty  key.  In  a moment  I 
was  free  of  the  mosque  of  Ibn-Tulun. 

I ascended  the  steps,  passed  through  a doorway,  and 
found  myself  on  a piece  of  waste  ground,  flanked  on  the 
right  by  an  old,  mysterious  wall,  and  on  the  left  by  the 
long  wall  of  the  mosque,  from  which  close  to  me  rose  a 
gray,  unornamented  minaret,  full  of  the  plain  dignity  of 
unpretending  age.  Upon  its  summit  was  perched  a 
large  and  weary-looking  bird  with  draggled  feathers, 
which  remained  so  still  that  it  seemed  to  be  a sad  orna- 
ment set  there  above  the  city,  and  watching  it  forever 
with  eyes  that  could  not  see.  At  right  angles,  touching 
the  mosque,  was  such  a house  as  one  can  see  only 
in  the  East  — fantastically  old,  fantastically  decayed, 
bleared,  discolored,  filthy,  melancholy,  showing  hideous 
windows  like  windows  in  the  slum  of  a town  set  above 
coal-pits  in  a colliery  district,  a degraded  house,  and 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


yet  a house  which  roused  the  imagination  and  drove  it 
to  its  work.  In  this  building  once  dwelt  the  High 
Priest  of  the  mosque.  This  dwelling,  the  ancient  wall, 
the  gray  minaret  with  its  motionless  bird,  the  lamentable 
waste  ground  at  my  feet,  prepared  me  rightly  to  appre- 
ciate the  bit  of  old  Cairo  I had  come  to  see. 

People  who  are  bored  by  Gothic  churches  would  not 
love  the  mosque  of  Ibn-Tulun.  No  longer  is  it  used 
for  worship.  It  contains  no  praying  life.  Abandoned, 
bare,  and  devoid  of  all  lovely  ornament,  it  stands  like 
some  hoary  patriarch,  naked  and  calm,  waiting  its 
destined  end  without  impatience  and  without  fear.  It 
is  a fatalistic  mosque,  and  is  impressive,  like  a fatalistic 
man.  The  great  court  of  it,  three  hundred  feet  square, 
with  pointed  arches  supported  by  piers,  double,  and  on 
the  side  looking  toward  Mecca  quintuple  arcades,  has  a 
great  dignity  of  somber  simplicity.  Not  grace,  not  a 
light  elegance  or  soaring  beauty,  but  massiveness  and 
heavy  strength  are  the  distinguishing  features  of  this 
mosque.  Even  the  octagonal  basin  and  its  protecting 
cupola  that  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  court  lack  the 
charm  that  belongs  to  so  many  of  the  fountains  of  Cairo. 
There  are  two  minarets,  the  minaret  of  the  bird,  and  a 
larger  one,  approached  by  a big  stairway  up  which,  so 
my  dragoman  told  me,  a Sultan  whose  name  I have 
forgotten  loved  to  ride  his  favorite  horse.  Upon  the 
summit  of  this  minaret  I stood  for  a long  time,  looking 
down  over  the  city. 


256 


OLD  CAIRO 


Gray  it  was  that  morning,  almost  as  London  is  gray  ; 
but  the  sounds  that  came  up  softly  to  my  ears  out  of 
the  mist  were  not  the  sounds  of  London.  Those  many 
minarets,  almost  like  columns  of  fog  rising  above  the 
cupolas,  spoke  to  me  of  the  East  even  upon  this  sad 
and  sunless  morning.  Once  from  where  I was  stand- 
ing at  the  time  appointed  went  forth  the  call  to  prayer, 
and  in  the  barren  court  beneath  me  there  were  crowds 
of  ardent  worshipers.  Stern  men  paced  upon  the  huge 
terrace  just  at  my  feet  fingering  their  beads,  and  under 
that  heavy  cupola  were  made  the  long  ablutions  of  the 
faithful.  But  now  no  man  comes  to  this  old  place,  no 
murmur  to  God  disturbs  the  heavy  silence.  And  the 
silence,  and  the  emptiness,  and  the  grayness  under  the 
long  arcades,  all  seem  to  make  a tremulous  proclama- 
tion ; all  seem  to  whisper,  “ I am  very  old,  I am  useless, 
I cumber  the  earth.”  Even  the  mosque  of  Amru,  which 
stands  also  on  ground  that  looks  gone  to  waste,  near 
dingy  and  squat  houses  built  with  gray  bricks,  seems 
less  old  than  this  mosque  of  Ibn-Tulun.  For  its  long 
facade  is  striped  with  white  and  apricot,  and  there  are 
lebbek-trees  growing  in  its  court  near  the  two  columns 
between  which  if  you  can  pass  you  are  assured  of  hea- 
ven. But  the  mosque  of  Ibn-Tulun,  seen  upon  a sad 
day,  makes  a powerful  impression,  and  from  the  summit 
of  its  minaret  you  are  summoned  by  the  many  minarets 
of  Cairo  to  make  the  pilgrimage  of  the  mosques,  to  pass 
from  the  “broken  arches”  of  these  Saracenic  cloisters 


2 57 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


to  the  “Blue  Mosque,”  the  “Red  Mosque,”  the  mosques 
of  Mohammed  Ali,  of  Sultan  Hassan,  of  Kait  Bey,  of 
El-Azhar,  and  so  on  to  the  Coptic  church  that  is  the 
silent  center  of  “old  Cairo.”  It  is  said  that  there  are 
over  four  hundred  mosques  in  Cairo.  As  I looked 
down  from  the  minaret  of  Ibn-Tulun,  they  called  me 
through  the  mist  that  blotted  completely  out  all  the 
surrounding  country,  as  if  it  would  concentrate  my  at- 
tention upon  the  places  of  prayer  during  these  holy  days 
when  the  pilgrims  were  crowding  in  to  depart  with  the 
Holy  Carpet.  And  I went  down  by  the  staircase  of 
the  horse,  and  in  the  mist  I made  my  pilgrimage. 

As  every  one  who  visits  Rome  goes  to  St.  Peter’s, 
so  every  one  who  visits  Cairo  goes  to  the  mosque  of 
Mohammed  Ali  in  the  citadel,  a gorgeous  building  in  a 
magnificent  situation,  the  interior  of  which  always  makes 
me  think  of  court  functions,  and  of  the  pomp  of  life, 
rather  than  of  prayer  and  self-denial.  More  attractive 
to  me  is  the  “Blue  Mosque,”  to  which  I returned  again 
and  again,  enticed  almost  as  by  the  fascination  of  the 
living  blue  of  a summer  sky. 

This  mosque,  which  is  the  mosque  of  Ibrahim  Aga, 
but  which  is  familiarly  known  to  its  lovers  as  the  “Blue 
Mosque,”  lies  to  the  left  of  a ramshackle  street,  and 
from  the  outside  does  not  look  specially  inviting.  Even 
when  I passed  through  its  door,  and  stood  in  the  court 
beyond,  at  first  I felt  not  its  charm.  All  looked  old  and 
rough,  unkempt  and  in  confusion.  The  red  and  white 

258 


OLD  CAIRO 


stripes  of  the  walls  and  the  arches  of  the  arcade,  the 
mean  little  place  for  ablution, — a pipe  and  a row  of 
brass  taps, — led  the  mind  from  a Neapolitan  ice  to  a 
second-rate  school,  and  for  a moment  I thought  of 
abruptly  retiring  and  seeking  more  splendid  precincts. 
And  then  I looked  across  the  court  to  the  arcade  that 
lay  beyond,  and  I saw  the  exquisite  “love  color”  of  the 
marvelous  tiles  that  gives  this  mosque  its  name. 

The  huge  pillars  of  this  arcade  are  striped  and  ugly, 
but  between  them  shone,  with  an  ineffable  luster,  a 
wall  of  purple  and  blue,  of  purple  and  blue  so  strong 
and  yet  so  delicate  that  it  held  the  eyes  and  drew  the 
body  forward.  If  ever  color  calls,  it  calls  in  the  blue 
mosque  of  Ibrahim  Aga.  And  when  I had  crossed  the 
court,  when  I stood  beside  the  pulpit,  with  its  delicious, 
wooden  folding-doors,  and  studied  the  tiles  of  which 
this  wonderful  wall  is  composed,  I found  them  as  lovely 
near  as  they  are  lovely  far  off.  From  a distance  they  re- 
semble a nature  effect,  are  almost  like  a bit  of  Southern 
sea  or  of  sky,  a fragment  of  gleaming  Mediterranean 
seen  through  the  pillars  of  a loggia,  or  of  Sicilian  blue 
watching  over  Etna  in  the  long  summer  days.  When 
one  is  close  to  them,  they  are  a miracle  of  art.  The 
background  of  them  is  a milky  white  upon  which  is  an 
elaborate  pattern  of  purple  and  blue,  generally  con- 
ventional and  representative  of  no  known  object,  but 
occasionally  showing  tall  trees  somewhat  resembling 
cypresses.  But  it  is  impossible  in  words  adequately  to 

2 59 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


describe  the  effect  of  these  tiles,  and  of  the  tiles  that 
line  to  the  very  roof  the  tomb-house  on  the  right  of  the 
court.  They  are  like  a cry  of  ecstasy  going  up  in  this 
otherwise  not  very  beautiful  mosque  ; they  make  it  un- 
forgetable,  they  draw  you  back  to  it  again  and  yet 
again.  On  the  darkest  day  of  winter  they  set  some- 
thing of  summer  there.  In  the  saddest  moment  they 
proclaim  the  fact  that  there  is  joy  in  the  world,  that 
there  was  joy  in  the  hearts  of  creative  artists  years 
upon  years  ago.  If  you  are  ever  in  Cairo,  and  sink 
into  depression,  go  to  the  “Blue  Mosque”  and  see  if  it 
does  not  have  upon  you  an  uplifting  moral  effect.  And 
then,  if  you  like,  go  on  from  it  to  the  GamiaEl  Movayad, 
sometimes  called  El  Ahmar,  “The  Red,”  where  you 
will  find  greater  glories,  though  no  greater  fascination ; for 
the  tiles  hold  their  own  among  all  the  wonders  of  Cairo. 

Outside  the  “ Red  Mosque,”  by  its  imposing  and 
lofty  wall,  there  is  always  an  assemblage  of  people,  for 
prayers  go  up  in  this  mosque,  ablutions  are  made  there, 
and  the  floor  of  the  arcade  is  often  covered  with  men 
studying  the  Koran,  calmly  meditating,  or  prostrating 
themselves  in  prayer.  And  so  there  is  a great  coming 
and  going  up  the  outside  stairs  and  through  the  won- 
derful doorway : beggars  crouch  under  the  wall  of  the 
terrace  ; the  sellers  of  cakes,  of  syrups  and  lemon  water, 
and  of  the  big  and  luscious  watermelons  that  are  so 
popular  in  Cairo,  display  their  wares  beneath  awnings 
of  orange-colored  sackcloth,  or  in  the  full  glare  of  the 

260 


OLD  CAIRO 


sun,  and,  their  prayers  comfortably  completed  or  per- 
haps not  yet  begun,  the  worshipers  stand  to  gossip,  or 
sit  to  smoke  their  pipes,  before  going  on  their  way  into 
the  city  or  the  mosque.  There  are  noise  and  perpetual 
movement  here.  Stand  for  a while  to  gain  an  impres- 
sion from  them  before  you  mount  the  steps  and  pass 
into  the  spacious  peace  beyond. 

Orientals  must  surely  revel  in  contrasts.  There  is 
no  tumult  like  the  tumult  in  certain  of  their  market- 
places. There  is  no  peace  like  the  peace  in  certain  of 
their  mosques.  Even  without  the  slippers  carefully 
tied  over  your  boots  you  would  walk  softly,  gingerly, 
in  the  mosque  of  El  Movayad,  the  mosque  of  the  col- 
umns and  the  garden.  For  once  within  the  door  you 
have  taken  wings  and  flown  from  the  city,  you  are  in  a 
haven  where  the  most  delicious  calm  seems  floating  like 
an  atmosphere.  Through  a lofty  colonnade  you  come 
into  the  mosque,  and  find  yourself  beneath  a magnifi- 
cently ornamental  wooden  roof,  the  general  effect  of 
which  is  of  deep  brown  and  gold,  though  there  are 
deftly  introduced  many  touches  of  very  fine  red  and 
strong,  luminous  blue.  The  walls  are  covered  with 
gold  and  superb  marbles,  and  there  are  many  quota- 
tions from  the  Koran  in  Arab  lettering  heavy  with  gold. 
The  great  doors  are  of  chiseled  bronze  and  of  wood.  In 
the  distance  is  a sultan’s  tomb,  surmounted  by  a high 
and  beautiful  cupola,  and  pierced  with  windows  of  jew- 
eled glass.  But  the  attraction  of  this  place  of  prayer 

261 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

comes  less  from  its  magnificence,  from  the  shining  of 
its  gold,  and  the  gleaming  of  its  many-colored  marbles, 
than  from  its  spaciousness,  its  airiness,  its  still  seclu- 
sion, and  its  garden.  Mohammedans  love  fountains  and 
shady  places,  as  can  surely  love  them  only  those  who 
carry  in  their  minds  a remembrance  of  the  desert.  They 
love  to  have  flowers  blowing  beside  them  while  they 
pray.  And  within  the  immensely  high  and  crenelated 
walls  of  this  mosque  long  ago  they  set  a fountain  of 
pure-white  marble,  covered  it  with  a shelter  of  lime- 
stone, and  planted  trees  and  flowers  about  it.  There 
beneath  palms  and  tall  eucalyptus-trees  even  on  this 
misty  day  of  the  winter,  roses  were  blooming,  pinks 
scented  the  air,  and  great  red  flowers,  that  looked  like 
emblems  of  passion,  stared  upward  almost  fiercely,  as 
if  searching  for  the  sun.  As  I stood  there  among  the 
worshipers  in  the  wide  colonnade,  near  the  exquisitely 
carved  pulpit  in  the  shadow  of  which  an  old  man  who 
looked  like  Abraham  was  swaying  to  and  fro  and  whis- 
pering his  prayers,  I thought  of  Omar  Khayyam  and 
how  he  would  have  loved  this  garden.  But  instead  of 
water  from  the  white  marble  fountain,  he  would  have 
desired  a cup  of  wine  to  drink  beneath  the  boughs  of 
the  sheltering  trees.  And  he  could  not  have  joined 
without  doubt  or  fear  in  the  fervent  devotions  of  the 
undoubting  men,  who  came  here  to  steep  their  wills  in 
the  great  will  that  flowed  about  them  like  the  ocean 
about  little  islets  of  the  sea. 

262 


OLD  CAIRO 


From  the  “Red  Mosque”  I went  to  the  great  mosque 
of  El-Azhar,  to  the  wonderful  mosque  of  Sultan  Has- 
san,  which  unfortunately  was  being  repaired  and  could 
not  be  properly  seen,  though  the  examination  of  the 
old  portal  covered  with  silver,  gold,  and  brass,  the  gen- 
eral color  effect  of  which  is  a delicious  dull  green,  re- 
paid me  for  my  visit,  and  to  the  exquisitely  graceful 
tomb-mosque  of  Kait  Bey,  which  is  beyond  the  city 
walls.  But  though  I visited  these,  and  many  other 
mosques  and  tombs,  including  the  tombs  of  the  Khalifas, 
and  the  extremely  smart  modern  tombs  of  the  family 
of  the  present  Khedive  of  Egypt,  no  building  dedicated 
to  worship,  or  to  the  cult  of  the  dead,  left  a more  last- 
ing impression  upon  my  mind  than  the  Coptic  church 
of  Abu  Sergius,  or  Abu  Sargah,  which  stands  in  the 
desolate  and  strangely  antique  quarter  called  “Old 
Cairo.”  Old  indeed  it  seems,  almost  terribly  old.  Silent 
and  desolate  is  it,  untouched  by  the  vivid  life  of  the 
rich  and  prosperous  Egypt  of  to-day,  a place  of  sad 
dreams,  a place  of  ghosts,  a place  of  living  specters. 
I went  to  it  alone.  Any  companion,  however  dreary, 
would  have  tarnished  the  perfection  of  the  impression 
old  Cairo  and  its  Coptic  church  can  give  to  the  lonely 
traveler. 

I descended  to  a gigantic  door  of  palmwood  which 
was  set  in  an  old  brick  arch.  This  door  upon  the  out- 
side was  sheeted  with  iron.  When  it  opened,  I left  be- 
hind me  the  world  I knew,  the  world  that  belongs  to 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

us  of  to-day,  with  its  animation,  its  impetus,  its  flash- 
ing changes,  its  sweeping  hurry  and  “go.”  I stepped 
at  once  into,  surely,  some  moldering  century  long  hid- 
den in  the  dark  womb  of  the  forgotten  past.  The  door 
of  palmwood  closed,  and  I found  myself  in  a sort  of 
deserted  town,  of  narrow,  empty  streets,  beetling  arch- 
ways, tall  houses  built  of  gray  bricks,  which  looked  as 
if  they  had  turned  gradually  gray,  as  hair  does  on  an 
aged  head.  Very,  very  tall  were  these  houses.  They 
all  appeared  horribly,  almost  indecently,  old.  As  I stood 
and  stared  at  them,  I remembered  a story  of  a Russian 
friend  of  mine,  a landed  proprietor,  on  whose  country 
estate  dwelt  a peasant  woman  who  lived  to  be  over  a 
hundred.  Each  year,  when  he  came  from  Petersburg, 
this  old  woman  arrived  to  salute  him.  At  last  she  was 
a hundred  and  four,  and,  when  he  left  his  estate  for  the 
winter,  she  bade  him  good-by  forever.  For  ever!  But, 
lo ! the  next  year  there  she  still  was — one  hundred  and 
five  years  old,  deeply  ashamed  and  full  of  apologies  for 
being  still  alive.  “ I cannot  help  it,”  she  said.  “ I ought 
no  longer  to  be  here,  but  it  seems  I do  not  know  any- 
thing. I do  not  know  even  how  to  die!”  The  gray, 
tall  houses  of  old  Cairo  do  not  know  how  to  die.  So 
there  they  stand,  showing  their  haggard  fagades,  which 
are  broken  by  protruding,  worm-eaten,  wooden  lattices 
not  unlike  the  shaggy,  protuberant  eyebrows  which 
sometimes  sprout  above  bleared  eyes  that  have  seen 
too  much.  No  one  looked  out  from  these  lattices.  Was 

264 


OLD  CAIRO 


there,  could  there  be,  any  life  behind  them?  Did  they 
conceal  harems  of  centenarian  women  with  wrinkled 
faces,  and  corrugated  necks  and  hands  ? Here  and 
there  drooped  down  a string  terminating  in  a lamp  cov- 
ered with  minute  dust,  that  wavered  in  the  wintry  wind 
which  stole  tremulously  between  the  houses.  And  the 
houses  seemed  to  be  leaning  forward,  as  if  they  were  fain 
to  touch  each  other  and  leave  no  place  for  the  wind, 
as  if  they  would  blot  out  the  exiguous  alleys,  so  that 
no  life  should  ever  venture  to  stir  through  them  again. 
Did  the  eyes  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  did  the  baby  eyes 
of  the  Christ  child,  ever  gaze  upon  these  buildings?  One 
could  almost  believe  it.  One  could  almost  believe  that 
already  these  buildings  were  there  when,  fleeing  from 
the  wrath  of  Herod,  Mother  and  Child  sought  the 
shelter  of  the  crypt  of  Abu  Sargah. 

I went  on,  walking  with  precaution,  and  presently  I 
saw  a man.  He  was  sitting  collapsed  beneath  an  arch- 
way, and  he  looked  older  than  the  world.  He  was  clad 
in  what  seemed  like  a sort  of  cataract  of  multicolored 
rags.  An  enormous  white  beard  flowed  down  over  his 
shrunken  breast.  His  face  was  a mass  of  yellow 
wrinkles.  His  eyes  were  closed.  His  yellow  fingers 
were  twined  about  a wooden  staff.  Above  his  head  was 
drawn  a patched  hood.  Was  he  alive  or  dead?  I could 
not  tell,  and  I passed  him  on  tiptoe.  And  going  always 
with  precaution  between  the  tall,  gray  houses  and  beneath 
the  lowering  arches,  I came  at  last  to  the  Coptic  church. 

265 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 


Near  it,  in  the  street,  were  several  Copts,  large,  fat, 
yellow-skinned,  apparently  sleeping,  in  attitudes  that 
made  them  look  like  bundles.  I woke  one  up,  and 
asked  to  see  the  church.  He  stared,  changed  slowly 
from  a bundle  to  a standing  man,  went  away  and  pres- 
ently, returning  with  a key  and  a pale,  intelligent- 
looking  youth,  admitted  me  into  one  of  the  strangest 
buildings  it  was  ever  my  lot  to  enter. 

The  average  Coptic  church  is  far  less  fascinating  than 
the  average  mosque,  but  the  church  of  Abu  Sargah  is 
like  no  other  church  that  I visited  in  Egypt.  Its  aspect 
of  hoary  age  makes  it  strangely,  almost  thrillingly  im- 
pressive. Now  and  then,  in  going  about  the  world,  one 
comes  across  a human  being,  like  the  white-bearded 
man  beneath  the  arch,  who  might  be  a thousand  years 
old,  two  thousand,  anything,  whose  appearance  suggests 
that  he  or  she,  perhaps,  was  of  the  company  which  was 
driven  out  of  Eden,  but  that  the  expulsion  was  not 
recorded.  And  now  and  then  one  happens  upon  a 
building  that  creates  the  same  impression.  Such  a 
building  is  this  church.  It  is  known  and  recorded  that 
more  than  a thousand  years  ago  it  had  a patriarch 
whose  name  was  Shenuti ; but  it  is  supposed  to  have 
been  built  long  before  that  time,  and  parts  of  it  look  as 
if  they  had  been  set  up  at  the  very  beginning  of  things. 
The  walls  are  dingy  and  whitewashed.  The  wooden 
roof  is  peaked,  with  many  cross-beams.  High  up  on 
the  walls  are  several  small  square  lattices  of  wood.  The 

266 


OLD  CAIRO 


floor  is  of  discolored  stone.  Everywhere  one  sees  wood 
wrought  into  lattices,  crumbling  carpets  that  look  al- 
most as  frail  and  brittle  and  fatigued  as  wrappings  of 
mummies,  and  worn-out  matting  that  would  surely  be- 
come as  the  dust  if  one  set  his  feet  hard  upon  it.  The 
structure  of  the  building  is  basilican,  and  it  contains 
some  strange  carvings  of  the  Last  Supper,  the  Nativity, 
and  St.  Demetrius.  Around  the  nave  there  are  mono- 
lithic columns  of  white  marble,  and  one  column  of  the 
red  and  shining  granite  that  is  found  in  such  quantities 
at  Assuan.  There  are  three  altars  in  three  chapels  fac- 
ing toward  the  East.  Coptic  monks  and  nuns  are  re- 
nowned for  their  austerity  of  life,  and  their  almost  fierce 
zeal  in  fasting  and  in  prayer,  and  in  Coptic  churches 
the  services  are  sometimes  so  long  that  the  worshipers, 
who  are  almost  perpetually  standing,  use  crutches  for 
their  support.  In  their  churches  there  always  seems  to 
me  to  be  a cold  and  austere  atmosphere,  far  different 
from  the  atmosphere  of  the  mosques  or  of  any  Roman 
Catholic  church.  It  sometimes  rather  repels  me,  and 
generally  makes  me  feel  either  dull  or  sad.  But  in  this 
immensely  old  church  of  Abu  Sargah  the  atmosphere 
of  melancholy  aids  the  imagination. 

In  Coptic  churches  there  is  generally  a great  deal  of 
woodwork  made  into  lattices,  and  into  the  screens  which 
mark  the  divisions,  usually  four,  but  occasionally  five, 
which  each  church  contains,  and  which  are  set  apart 
for  the  altar,  for  the  priests,  singers,  and  ministrants,  for 
19*  267 


EGYPT  AND  ITS  MONUMENTS 

the  male  portion  of  the  congregation,  and  for  the  wo- 
men, who  sit  by  themselves.  These  divisions,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  wide  spaciousness  and  airiness  of  the 
mosques,  where  only  pillars  and  columns  partly  break 
up  the  perspective,  give  to  Coptic  buildings  an  air  of 
secrecy  and  of  mystery,  which,  however,  is  often  rather 
repellent  than  alluring.  In  the  high  wooden  lattices 
there  are  narrow  doors,  and  in  the  division  which  con- 
tains the  altar  the  door  is  concealed  by  a curtain  em- 
broidered with  a large  cross.  The  Mohammedans  who 
created  the  mosques  showed  marvelous  taste.  Copts 
are  often  lacking  in  taste,  as  they  have  proved  here  and 
there  in  Abu  Sargah.  Above  one  curious  and  unlat- 
ticed screen,  near  to  a matted  dais,  droops  a hideous 
banner,  red,  purple,  and  yellow,  with  a white  cross. 
Peeping  in,  through  an  oblong  aperture,  one  see  a sort 
of  minute  circus,  in  the  form  of  a half-moon,  containing 
a table  with  an  ugly  red-and-white  striped  cloth.  There 
the  Eucharist,  which  must  be  preceded  by  confession,  is 
celebrated.  The  pulpit  is  of  rosewood,  inlaid  with  ivory 
and  ebony,  and  in  what  is  called  the  “ haikal-screen  ” 
there  are  some  fine  specimens  of  carved  ebony. 

As  I wandered  about  over  the  tattered  carpets  and 
the  crumbling  matting,  under  the  peaked  roof,  as  I 
looked  up  at  the  flat-roofed  galleries,  or  examined  the 
sculptures  and  ivory  mosaics  that,  bleared  by  the  pass- 
ing of  centuries,  seemed  to  be  fading  away  under  my 
very  eyes,  as  upon  every  side  I was  confronted  by  the 

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hoary  wooden  lattices  in  which  the  dust  found  a home 
and  rested  undisturbed,  and  as  I thought  of  the  narrow 
alleys  of  gray  and  silent  dwellings  through  which  I had 
come  to  this  strange  and  melancholy  “Temple  of  the 
Father,”  I seemed  to  feel  upon  my  breast  the  weight  of 
the  years  that  had  passed  since  pious  hands  erected  this 
home  of  prayer  in  which  now  no  one  was  praying.  But 
I had  yet  to  receive  another  and  a deeper  impression 
of  solemnity  and  heavy  silence.  By  a staircase  I de- 
scended to  the  crypt,  which  lies  beneath  the  choir  of  the 
church,  and  there,  surrounded  by  columns  of  venerable 
marble,  beside  an  altar,  I stood  on  the  very  spot  where, 
according  to  tradition,  the  Virgin  Mary  soothed  the 
Christ  child  to  sleep  in  the  dark  night.  And,  as  I stood 
there,  I felt  that  the  tradition  was  a true  one,  and  that 
there  indeed  had  stayed  the  wondrous  Child  and  the 
Holy  Mother  long,  how  long,  ago. 

The  pale,  intelligent  Coptic  youth,  who  had  followed 
me  everywhere,  and  who  now  stood  like  a statue  gaz- 
ing upon  me  with  his  lustrous  eyes,  murmured  in  Eng- 
lish, “ This  very  good  place  ; this  most  interestin’  place 
in  Cairo.” 

Certainly  it  is  a place  one  can  never  forget.  For  it 
holds  in  its  dusty  arms — what?  Something  impalpable, 
something  ineffable,  something  strange  as  death,  spec- 
tral, cold,  yet  exciting,  something  that  seems  to  creep 
into  it  out  of  the  distant  past  and  to  whisper:  “I  am 

here.  I am  not  utterly  dead.  Still  I have  a voice  and 

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can  murmur  to  you,  eyes  and  can  regard  you,  a soul 
and  can,  if  only  for  a moment,  be  your  companion  in 
this  sad,  yet  sacred,  place.” 

Contrast  is  the  salt,  the  pepper,  too,  of  life,  and  one 
of  the  great  joys  of  travel  is  that  at  will  one  can  com- 
mand contrast.  From  silence  one  can  plunge  into 
noise,  from  stillness  one  can  hasten  to  movement,  from 
the  strangeness  and  the  wonder  of  the  antique  past  one 
can  step  into  the  brilliance,  the  gaiety,  the  vivid  anima- 
tion of  the  present.  From  Babylon  one  can  go  to  Bulak; 
and  on  to  Bab  Zouweleh,  with  its  crying  children,  its 
veiled  women,  its  cake-sellers,  its  fruiterers,  its  turbaned 
Ethiopians,  its  black  Nubians,  and  almost  fair  Egyp- 
tians ; one  can  visit  the  bazaars,  or  on  a market  morn- 
ing spend  an  hour  at  Shareh-el-Gamaleyeh,  watching 
the  disdainful  camels  pass,  soft-footed,  along  the 
shadowy  streets,  and  the  flat-nosed  African  negroes, 
with  their  almost  purple-black  skins,  their  bulging  eyes, 
in  which  yellow  lights  are  caught,  and  their  huge  hands 
with  turned-back  thumbs,  count  their  gains,  or  yell  their 
disappointment  over  a bargain  from  which  they  have 
come  out  not  victors,  but  vanquished.  If  in  Cairo  there 
are  melancholy,  and  silence,  and  antiquity,  in  Cairo  may 
be  found  also  places  of  intense  animation,  of  almost 
frantic  bustle,  of  uproar  that  cries  to  heaven.  To  Bulak 
still  come  the  high-prowed  boats  of  the  Nile,  with 
striped  sails  bellying  before  a fair  wind,  to  unload  their 
merchandise.  From  the  Delta  they  bring  thousands  of 

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OLD  CAIRO 


panniers  of  fruit,  and  from  Upper  Egypt  and  from 
Nubia  all  manner  of  strange  and  precious  things  which 
are  absorbed  into  the  great  bazaars  of  the  city,  and  are 
sold  to  many  a traveler  at  prices  which,  to  put  it  mildly, 
bring  to  the  sellers  a good  return.  For  in  Egypt  if  one 
leaves  his  heart,  he  leaves  also  not  seldom  his  skin. 
The  goblin  men  of  the  great  goblin  market  of  Cairo 
take  all,  and  remain  unsatisfied  and  calling  for  more.  I 
said,  in  a former  chapter,  that  no  fierce  demands  for 
money  fell  upon  my  ears.  But  I confess,  when  I said 
it,  that  I had  forgotten  certain  bazaars  of  Cairo. 

But  what  matters  it?  He  who  has  drunk  Nile  wa- 
ter must  return.  The  golden  country  calls  him;  the 
mosques  with  their  marble  columns,  their  blue  tiles,  their 
stern-faced  worshipers;  the  narrow  streets  with  their 
tall  houses,  their  latticed  windows,  their  peeping  eyes 
looking  down  on  the  life  that  flows  beneath  and  can 
never  be  truly  tasted ; the  Pyramids  with  their  bases  in 
the  sand  and  their  pointed  summits  somewhere  near  the 
stars;  the  Sphinx  with  its  face  that  is  like  the  enigma 
of  human  life;  the  great  river  that  flows  by  the  tombs 
and  the  temples ; the  great  desert  that  girdles  it  with  a 
golden  girdle. 

Egypt  calls — even  across  the  space  of  the  world; 
and  across  the  space  of  the  world  he  who  knows  it  is 
ready  to  come,  obedient  to  its  summons,  because  in 
thrall  to  the  eternal  fascination  of  the  “land  of  sand, 
and  ruins,  and  gold”  ; the  land  of  the  charmed  serpent, 


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the  land  of  the  afterglow,  that  may  fade  away  from  the 
sky  above  the  mountains  of  Libya,  but  that  fades  never 
from  the  memory  of  one  who  has  seen  it  from  the  base 
of  some  great  column,  or  the  top  of  some  mighty  pylon; 
the  land  that  has  a spell — wonderful,  beautiful  Egypt. 


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